In 1828, at the age of 32, Charlotte Elliott suffered a serious illness that left her a semi-invalid. This caused depression, and within the year she experienced a severe spiritual crisis. Swiss evangelist Henry A. Cesàr Malan was visiting her family, and she confessed to him that she didn’t know how to come to Christ. His famous response was, “Come to him just as you are.” Her depression continued, however. One night, twelve years later, she lay awake, distressed by her uselessness as an invalid, and by doubts of her spiritual life. The next day, as she reflected on the previous night, she decided she needed to meet her spiritual troubles head on and conquer them by the grace of God. So she “gathered up in her soul the grand certainties, not of her emotions, but of her salvation: her Lord, His power, His promise” (Lutheran Hymnal Handbook). She took up pen and paper, and wrote down her own “formulae of faith,” remembering those words of the visiting evangelist. In the end she had the text “Just as I am, without one plea.” Her rule of faith has since become a comfort to millions, and we join with all Christians who experience doubt and uncertainty in their faith when we declare that Christ invites us to come to Him, just as we are.
What essentially is Jesus’ claim? (11:25–30) What was that claim of Jesus that John was perplexed about, and that Korazin and Bethsaida found too much to accept? This amazing passage tells us. ‘I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earthy, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father,26 for this was your good pleasure. 27 ’All things have been committed to me by my Father. No-one knows the Son except the Father, and no-one knows the Father except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. 28‘Come to me, you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.’ Jesus is quietly claiming to be the locus of all revelation. Whatever revelation there may be, dispersed in human intellect and values, in virtuous action, in nature and in the history of humankind, the centre of all God’s self-disclosure is Jesus of Nazareth. He fulfils all the hopes of the Old Testament, and is the heart of all revelation. In a dark world lit by candles and lamps, he comes as a searchlight. If we look closely at this claim, we will see five distinct elements in it. First, Jesus maintains that God the Father conceals and reveals according to his will. People cannot grasp a Christian understanding of God and Christian relationship with God by their own efforts. They cannot discern who Jesus is, what the kingdom is, unless God shows them. He conceals these things from those who are wise in their own conceits, and reveals them to those who come with childlike trust and teachableness. Whenever anyone comes to faith, there is a divine disclosure to that person. Secondly, Jesus claims to be the plenipotentiary representative of the Father. He comes from the Father’s side, equipped with the Father’s power and trenchancy, and displaying the compassion of the Father’s heart. He fully represents God, and he comes with God’s own claim on human hearts. Thirdly, only the Father fully understands Jesus. Not John, not the disciples, not the wise or little children. The mystery of his person is inscrutable this side of heaven. Theologians have spent centuries seeking to reconcile his divine and human natures. It is like trying to square the circle. With the limited discernment of the human mind and heart it cannot be done. It takes God to know God. Only the Father knows the Son. What a claim! Fourthly, only Jesus fully understands the Father. Great people have discovered and taught many true and noble things about God. Nobody has known him with the intimacy of Jesus, who could call him Abba, dear daddy. When that holy man Mahatma Gandhi was dying, one of his relatives came to him and asked, ‘Babaki, you have been looking for God all your life. Have you found him yet?’ ‘No,’ was the reply. ‘I’m still looking.’ The humility, the earnestness, the sheer goodness of a great teacher like Gandhi shine through a remark like that. But it stands in the most stark contrast with Jesus’ claim in this passage. ‘No-one knows the Father except the Son’ (27). He does not know something about God. He does not even know everything about God. He knows God absolutely. It is simply breathtaking. And fifthly, because Jesus shares the Father’s nature as well as ours, he and he alone can reveal the Father. He can show us, because he knows. He can introduce us because he belongs: he is the Son. These five elements go to make up the most astounding claim that has ever been heard on human lips, that the way to know the Father is through Jesus. It reminds us irresistibly of other words of Jesus: ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No-one comes to the Father except through me’, and ‘Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.’ If you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus. If you want to get through to God, come to Jesus. If you want to discover the epicentre of God’s self-disclosure, you will find it in Jesus. That is the claim. That is what makes Christianity at once so widely attractive and so widely hated. The sheer exclusivity of the claims drives people in one direction or the other. They do not allow us the comfort of occupying middle ground. Nor can we shrug off the need for decision by saying that these exclusive claims are found only in the Fourth Gospel, which some scholars regard as late and theologically tendentious. The passage before us is every bit as challenging, exclusive and absolute in its claim as anything in the Fourth Gospel, and it is situated in one of the oldest strata of the Gospel tradition, the Q material, sayings of Jesus found in both Matthew and Luke but absent from Mark. Scholars ascribe a high degree of reliability to this material. C. S. Lewis was right when he said that there is no way of reconciling Jesus’ humility of lifestyle, quality of character and profundity of teaching with the rampant megalomania which must colour his theological claims about himself if he is not God. We are invited to choose how we shall respond to so staggering a claim. The revelation and the rescue belong together. So Jesus, after making this claim to be the revelation of God, issues the most wonderful, warm invitation to all who feel in need of rescue by God (28–29). Notice again the breathtaking claim, ‘Come to me’ (28). Not ‘Go to God’—we could not find the way. The Bible suggests that there is a twist in our human nature which would make us unwilling to embrace the highest when we saw it. ‘Come to me—I have come to seek you out.’ What grace, that God should come to seek his rebel subjects with no word of condemnation on his lips, but an invitation, ‘Come’! That one word shows us the very heart of God. That is his attitude to sinners. The weary and the heavily burdened are particularly invited. That may have a significance beyond the obvious, for the Greeks were exhausted by the search for truth, which had been proceeding for centuries without resolution. They anticipated modern existentialists in concluding that authentic experience was incommunicable: ‘It is very difficult to find God, and when you have found him it is impossible to tell anyone else about him.’ As for the Jews, they must have found religion a great burden. It had become a matter of endless regulations and duties. Did not the teachers of the law and the Pharisees ‘tie up heavy loads and put them on men’s shoulders’ (23:4)? Jesus came to end the search by taking us in his loving arms. He came to lift burdens off our aching backs, not tie them on. He offers ‘rest’, not cessation from toil, but peace and fulfilment and a sense of being put right. We have only to come, to entrust ourselves to him, and we shall find that rest. Millions have done so, and have enjoyed that given rest. There is a deeper rest, which cannot be given but can only be found: the rest of taking his yoke upon us and entering into partnership with him. He wants not only to welcome back the sinner, but to train the disciple. ‘Come to me’ is followed by ‘Take my yoke upon you’ (28–29). The yoke was the wooden collar that ran across the shoulders of a pair of oxen and enabled them jointly to pull enormous weights. Metaphorically, the yoke was used to describe the law which the Jewish youth undertook to bind to himself in the bar mitzvah ceremony. It spoke of loyal commitment. And here the carpenter of Nazareth, who had made many a yoke, says in effect, ‘My yokes fit well. They do not rub your neck and shoulders. Come to me. Get yoked up to me. Make an act of loyal obedience, like a bar mitzvah, to me. And you will find a deep peace and satisfaction that you could never find elsewhere. I have come for you. Come to me.’ Often in Judaism the ‘yoke’ is applied to the law. Jesus brings a wonderful fulfilment to that imagery. He invites the weary and harassed not to go to the law but to come to him. However, the allusion seems to go deeper, to the wisdom literature where wisdom is almost personified and almost identified with God. In Sirach 51:23–27, Wisdom invites people to ‘Draw near to me’, to take on the ‘yoke’ of instruction, with the promise of little labour and of finding ‘rest’. It is only an allusion, and some scholars doubt any reference to wisdom at all. But if Jesus did make that allusion and some of his hearers picked it up, its claim is truly shattering. It is saying that what the law and wisdom were to Israel, Jesus is to the citizens of the kingdom. This metaphor was not forgotten in the church. The early Christian document, the Didache, calls Christ’s commandments ‘the yoke of the law’. His yoke is gentle, but not in the sense that it is less demanding than Judaism. In some ways it is more demanding. But it is the yoke of love, not of duty. It is the response of the liberated, not the duty of the obligated. And that makes all the difference.
Michael Green, The Message of Matthew: The Kingdom of Heaven, The Bible Speaks Today (Leicester, England; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2001), 140–143.