And then next, he “shut up John in prison.”

 Here is our second topic.  The apparent failure of religious life.

The point which we have to look at in this section of the Baptist’s life is the truthfulness of religious character.  For the prophet was now in a sphere of life altogether new.  He had got to the third act of his history.  The first was performed right manfully in the desert—­that is past.  He has now become a known man, celebrated through the country, brought into the world, great men listening to him, and in the way, if he chooses it, to become familiar with the polished life of Herod’s court.  For this we read:  Herod observed John, that is, cultivated his acquaintance, paid him marked attention, heard him, did many things at his bidding, and heard him gladly.

For thirty long years John had lived in that far-off desert, filling his soul with the grandeur of solitude, content to be unknown, not conscious, most likely, that there was anything supernatural in him—­living with the mysterious God in silence.  And then came the day when the qualities, so secretly nursed, became known in the great world:  men felt that there was a greater than themselves before them, and then came the trial of admiration, when the crowds congregated round to listen.  And all that trial John bore uninjured, for when those vast crowds dispersed at night, he was left alone with God and the universe once more.  That prevented his being spoilt by flattery.  But now comes the great trial.  John is transplanted from the desert to the town:  he has quitted simple life:  he has come to artificial life.  John has won a king’s attention, and now the question is, Will the diamond of the mine bear polishing without breaking into shivers?  Is the iron prophet melting into voluptuous softness?  Is he getting the world’s manners and the world’s courtly insincerity?  Is he becoming artificial through his change of life?  My Christian brethren, we find nothing of the kind.  There he stands in Herod’s voluptuous court the prophet of the desert still, unseduced by blandishment from his high loyalty, and fronting his patron and his prince with the stern unpalatable truth of God.

It is refreshing to look on such a scene as this—­the highest, the very highest moment, I think, in all John’s history; higher than his ascetic life.  For after all, ascetic life such as he had led before, when he fed on locusts and wild honey, is hard only in the first resolve.  When you have once made up your mind to that, it becomes a habit to live alone.  To lecture the poor about religion is not hard.  To speak of unworldliness to men with whom we do not associate, and who do not see our daily inconsistencies, that is not hard.  To speak contemptuously of the world when we have no power of commanding its admiration, that is not difficult.  But when God has given a man accomplishments, or powers, which would