There is a mystery running through the Holy Scriptures so profound, so unsettling to human pride and so extravagantly comforting to the troubled soul that, once properly understood, it ought to transform the manner in which we look upon our fellow human beings. It is the mystery of divine knowledge concealed beneath human appearances, of faith sometimes hidden beneath circumstances that seem to contradict it, of grace operating where religious respectability least expects to encounter it, and of the Almighty recognising His own in places where even His most distinguished servants might never have thought to look. Its foundation is laid with extraordinary clarity in the house of Jesse, where the prophet Samuel, commissioned by God to anoint a king over Israel, almost surrendered his prophetic judgement to the persuasive spectacle of physical appearance. When Eliab, Jesse’s impressive firstborn, appeared before him, Samuel was immediately convinced that the Lord’s anointed had arrived. The man looked every inch a king! His stature was commanding, his bearing apparently regal, and his outward qualifications sufficiently persuasive to satisfy even an experienced prophet. But heaven interrupted the proceedings with a declaration that should forever unsettle our confidence in judging the spiritual standing of another human being: “For the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). One after another, Jesse’s sons passed before Samuel, and one after another they were rejected. Meanwhile, the man God had chosen was nowhere in the distinguished assembly. David was out in the fields tending sheep, so inconspicuous in his father’s calculations that he had not even been summoned to the occasion! Yet heaven had already identified the king whom the household had overlooked. The prophet saw stature; God saw the heart. The family saw a shepherd boy; God saw a king. The assembled candidates possessed the visibility, but the absent shepherd possessed the divine appointment. David’s selection concerned his appointment to kingship, not a direct pronouncement upon the eternal salvation of Jesse’s other sons; nevertheless, the principle governing God’s correction is unmistakable. Human beings see appearances. God sees the heart. And if Samuel, a prophet entrusted with divine revelation, could be mistaken by appearances, what extraordinary confidence must possess the rest of us when we presume to identify, merely by outward observation, everyone whom God has accepted and everyone whom He has rejected?
Imagine, then, a magnificent procession of humanity passing before our eyes, each person bearing the outward marks by which society identifies, classifies, admires or condemns its members. First comes the distinguished professor, a formidable scientist of international reputation, resplendent in flowing academic robes, a richly embroidered doctoral hood resting majestically upon his shoulders and an imposing academic bonnet crowning a head that has spent decades wrestling with the mysteries of the physical universe. His face is stern, almost forbidding, its deeply furrowed brow bearing the accumulated weight of rigorous intellectual inquiry. Behind carefully balanced spectacles, two piercing, forensic eyes survey the world with the disciplined suspicion of a mind trained to interrogate evidence, challenge assumptions and submit every proposition to the merciless scrutiny of scientific reasoning. His lips are tightly drawn, his jaw firmly set, and his entire countenance suggests a man with little patience for intellectual frivolity. As he proceeds along the bustling street, he encounters an exuberant company of street evangelists. At their centre stands a preacher gripping a battered horn speaker through which the gospel of Jesus Christ is being proclaimed with such extraordinary enthusiasm that pedestrians several streets away might reasonably conclude that the Last Trumpet has arrived somewhat ahead of schedule! Behind him, an energetic choir claps, sways, stamps and raises its voices heavenward, its spirited choruses punctuated by vigorous tambourine playing and thunderous shouts of “Hallelujah!” The professor turns his head. His forensic eyes narrow. One eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly, and a fleeting expression crosses his stern face that an unsuspecting observer might interpret as the cultivated disdain of a great intellect confronted by the unrestrained enthusiasm of the religiously unsophisticated. He adjusts his spectacles, gathers the folds of his academic gown and proceeds with the measured dignity of a man whose thoughts appear to inhabit intellectual altitudes considerably above the commotion unfolding beside the pavement. The preacher, meanwhile, catches sight of the imposing academic figure and, perhaps mistaking his apparent aloofness for spiritual indifference, raises the horn speaker another inch and proclaims with renewed urgency that the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God! Yet what if the professor, beneath that forbidding exterior, is himself a deeply committed disciple of Jesus Christ? What if the same man who spends his days investigating the mysteries of creation spends his nights upon his knees before the Creator? What if the preacher, whose theological vocabulary may be considerably less sophisticated than the professor’s scientific terminology, possesses the same living faith in the crucified and risen Lord? Then behold the magnificent irony! Two disciples of the same Saviour have just passed each other in the street, one apparently suspecting intellectual arrogance and the other perhaps suspecting spiritual ignorance, while heaven recognises in both the workmanship of the same redeeming grace! The professor’s sternness was not unbelief, the preacher’s exuberance was not proof of superior holiness, and the apparent gulf between their outward expressions was no reliable measure of their standing before God. One may investigate the heavens through the instruments of science while the other proclaims the Lord of heaven through a battered horn speaker. Their temperaments differ, their vocations differ, their intellectual equipment differs, and their preferred volumes of public expression differ most spectacularly. Yet both may bow before the same Lord, confess the same Saviour and cherish the same hope of eternal life. For the Almighty does not mistake a stern countenance for a hardened heart, intellectual sophistication for spiritual unbelief, or religious exuberance for the exclusive evidence of genuine discipleship.
And now approaches a dignified Muslim gentleman, his body enveloped in a magnificent, flowing white thobe descending gracefully to his ankles, its immaculate fabric lending him an air of solemnity and composure. Upon his head rests a carefully arranged ghutra, its folds cascading over his shoulders, held firmly in place by the distinctive agal, those two conspicuous black rings of braided cord resting like a double crown upon his head. His beard is neatly groomed, his bearing deliberate, and his entire appearance communicates the unmistakable dignity of his religious and cultural identity. Beside him walks a Muslim woman, her figure concealed beneath a sweeping black abaya, her head and face covered by a niqab, leaving only her eyes visible through the narrow opening in the fabric. To the casual observer, their outward appearances announce a religious identity with impressive clarity. Yet what do those garments reveal of the secret chambers of their hearts? Have they encountered the words of Isa ibn Maryam? Have they pondered His extraordinary authority, His miracles, His promised return and the judgement associated with Him? Have questions arisen within them that no observer could possibly detect? We cannot know by examining their clothing. The man may be dressed in the finest garments of Arabian tradition, and the woman may be concealed beneath layer upon layer of fabric, but neither the double black cord upon his head nor the veil across her face can disclose the full condition of a soul before God. These garments are not universal requirements of Muslim identity, and their significance must not be confused with a comprehensive account of the people who wear them. They may tell us something about religious and cultural belonging; they cannot tell us everything about the inward response of a human being to Jesus Christ. The Almighty sees beyond the folds of the ghutra, beneath the flowing abaya, beyond the narrow opening of the niqab, and into the heart itself. His invitation remains open to them, as to every other human being: believe in Jesus Christ, wherever you are!
Then comes a woman whose scant clothing and public reputation immediately provoke the disapproving glances of the respectable. Perhaps she is a prostitute, recognised by society through the very circumstances that have made her an object of contempt. Some avert their eyes, others whisper their condemnation, and still others congratulate themselves upon the superior virtue of their own lives. But who among them has examined her heart? Who knows whether, beneath that outward appearance, there is a soul crying for mercy, a conscience awakening to righteousness, or a faith beginning to reach toward the Saviour? Who knows the circumstances that brought her to this place, the sorrows concealed behind her carefully arranged appearance, the prayers she may have uttered in solitude, or the longing for deliverance that no passer-by has thought to investigate? Her circumstances do not establish that she possesses saving faith, but neither do they authorise us to declare that divine grace cannot reach her. Then approaches the wealthy man, magnificently dressed, surrounded by the visible evidence of his prosperity, his vast estates, luxurious residences, impressive investments and overflowing accounts announcing his importance before he has uttered a word. Does his abundance reveal divine approval, or conceal spiritual poverty? We cannot know from the size of his possessions. Finally comes the powerful politician, accompanied by an elaborate procession of official vehicles, flashing lights, stern-faced security officers and an entourage of attendants whose principal occupation appears to be ensuring that nobody forgets the importance of the person they accompany. Doors swing open before him, crowds rise at his arrival, and titles roll from the mouths of his admirers with almost liturgical solemnity. Yet when the motorcade falls silent, the security detail withdraws and the ceremonial splendour is stripped away, what remains before the searching eyes of the Almighty? A human soul, no more capable of purchasing divine approval with political power than the professor can purchase it with academic distinction, the wealthy man with his possessions, or the religiously attired with the garments upon their bodies. The Lord does not mistake academic distinction for spiritual wisdom, religious clothing for saving faith, social disgrace for divine rejection, material abundance for heavenly favour, or political authority for righteousness. He looks upon the heart. And the woman whom society has despised may, through repentance and faith, be nearer to the kingdom of God than those whose outward circumstances command universal admiration. Indeed, Jesus warned the religious authorities that publicans and harlots were entering the kingdom of God before them (Matthew 21:31–32). What a devastating reversal of the conventional order of religious respectability!
And now let us return to the Scriptures, where the extraordinary truth announced in Jesse’s house unfolds through a procession of witnesses whose lives should forever cure us of the temptation to confuse public reputation with divine recognition. Consider Rahab, the woman of Jericho whose name has travelled through the centuries accompanied by a description that respectable society would ordinarily prefer to whisper. Rahab was a harlot. That was her public identity, her social classification and, presumably, the reputation by which the inhabitants of Jericho understood her. Yet something extraordinary had been happening within this woman’s heart. When the Israelite spies entered her house, she disclosed a conviction that transcended the religious allegiance of her city. She had heard of the mighty works of the Lord, and she declared, “For the LORD your God, he is God in heaven above, and in earth beneath” (Joshua 2:11). What an astonishing confession from a woman living within the walls of a pagan city marked for destruction! Jericho knew her occupation, but God knew her faith. Jericho knew where she lived, but heaven knew where her allegiance lay. And when the walls came tumbling down, the woman whom respectable society might have dismissed as morally disqualified was preserved with her household. Centuries later, Hebrews 11:31 would honour her among the heroes of faith, while James 2:25 would recognise the practical expression of that faith. Even more astonishingly, Matthew 1:5 would place Rahab within the genealogy of Jesus Christ Himself. The woman whose reputation might have excluded her from a respectable earthly family register found her name preserved in the ancestral record of the Messiah! One can only imagine the bewilderment of those who had confidently assessed her spiritual prospects by examining her professional history. But the lesson is not that her former occupation was righteous or that faith leaves a person’s life unchanged. It is that the grace of God had reached a woman whose public identity would scarcely have encouraged the religiously respectable to look for it.
And what shall we say of the woman who entered the house of Simon the Pharisee and approached Jesus with an alabaster box of ointment? Luke 7:36–50 describes a woman known in the city as a sinner, whose tears fell upon the feet of Jesus, whose hair became their towel, and whose kisses and ointment expressed a devotion that scandalised the religious host. Simon watched the spectacle with the cultivated disapproval of a man thoroughly persuaded of his own spiritual discernment. Surely, he reasoned, if Jesus were truly a prophet, He would know what manner of woman was touching Him! Yet the irony was magnificent. Simon thought the woman’s reputation exposed a deficiency in the discernment of Jesus, when his own reaction was exposing a deficiency in Simon’s understanding of divine grace. The Pharisee knew the woman’s history; Jesus knew her heart. Simon remembered her sins; Jesus recognised her love. Simon was offended that she had touched the Lord; the Lord was concerned that Simon had failed to offer even the ordinary courtesies of hospitality. And when Jesus declared, “Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace” (Luke 7:50), the entire architecture of Simon’s religious judgement stood exposed. The woman whom he had classified according to her past was being addressed according to the faith that had brought her to Christ. There is another beautiful account of anointing, recorded in Matthew 26:6–13 and Mark 14:3–9, with John’s account identifying Mary of Bethany as the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet and wiped them with her hair (John 12:1–8). These accounts should not automatically be confused with the earlier incident in Luke’s Gospel, but together they illuminate the extraordinary contrast between human evaluation and divine recognition. At Bethany, what some observers condemned as waste, Jesus commended as a beautiful work performed in anticipation of His burial. Indeed, He declared that wherever the gospel would be preached throughout the world, the woman’s deed would be remembered. Imagine the reversal! Those who thought themselves sufficiently discerning to calculate the value of the ointment had failed to appreciate the spiritual significance of the offering. They could estimate the market price of the perfume, but not the worth of the devotion. Heaven’s valuation had exceeded their calculations by an eternity.
Then there is Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews, a teacher of Israel and a man whose public religious standing made his interest in Jesus particularly consequential. John 3:1–2 records that he came to Jesus by night. We are not told everything that moved him to choose that hour, and we should resist the temptation to pretend that we are privy to every consideration of his heart. What we do know is that the conversation exposed him to one of the most sublime declarations in all Scripture: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). Nicodemus did not immediately emerge as a conspicuous public disciple. Yet in John 7:50–51, we find him questioning the fairness of condemning Jesus without a hearing. And when the crucifixion had taken place, Nicodemus appeared again, bringing a substantial mixture of myrrh and aloes for the burial of the very One he had once approached under the cover of darkness (John 19:39). What a journey! The man who first approached Jesus privately eventually appeared beside His crucified body. The Scriptures allow us to observe the progression without pretending to know every hidden movement of his faith along the way. Perhaps that is itself an important lesson: the spiritual history of another person may contain chapters that God has not permitted us to read.
Beside Nicodemus stood Joseph of Arimathea, whose story brings the mystery of secret discipleship into its sharpest focus. John 19:38 explicitly describes him as a disciple of Jesus, “but secretly for fear of the Jews.” There, in the plain language of Scripture, stands the very phenomenon that gives this meditation its title. A disciple, yet secret. A follower of Christ, yet afraid. A man whose inward allegiance was not fully disclosed by his outward conduct. We must not romanticise his fear or turn concealment into the ideal condition of Christian discipleship. Nevertheless, Scripture does not deny his discipleship because of that fear. And when Jesus had died, Joseph went boldly to Pilate to request His body (Mark 15:43). Consider the extraordinary reversal. When association with Jesus seemed to promise influence, miracles, crowds and the possibility of an earthly kingdom, discipleship had been publicly attractive. But when the Master lay dead, condemned by the authorities and crucified beneath the shame reserved for criminals, Joseph stepped forward. He brought no triumphant procession, no political manifesto and no promise of immediate reward. He came to bury the Lord he loved. And Nicodemus came with him. Two men whose attachment to Christ had been relatively inconspicuous now undertook a solemn public service at the moment when identification with Him had become particularly costly. What a remarkable reminder that the visibility of a person’s faith at one moment may tell us very little about the courage that faith will produce at another! And what a scene for the contemplation of every Christian who has ever been tempted to measure discipleship by public prominence: the crucified Saviour, the abandoned hopes of His followers, the solemn silence of approaching evening, and two men emerging from relative obscurity with burial linen and spices to honour the body of their Lord.
But perhaps no biblical episode more thoroughly exposes the limitations of human knowledge than the experience of Elijah. After his dramatic confrontation with the prophets of Baal, the prophet found himself overwhelmed by the apparent triumph of wickedness and the seeming disappearance of faithfulness from Israel. “I, even I only, am left,” he lamented (1 Kings 19:10, 14). Yet the Lord informed him that He had preserved seven thousand in Israel whose knees had not bowed to Baal (1 Kings 19:18). Seven thousand! The prophet had surveyed the spiritual landscape and concluded that the faithful had been reduced to one exhausted individual, only to discover that heaven possessed an entirely different census. Elijah was not mistaken about the seriousness of Israel’s apostasy, but he was profoundly mistaken about the number of those whom God had preserved. The Almighty had a remnant beyond the prophet’s observation. One can almost imagine Elijah revising his spiritual statistics with considerable embarrassment. His earthly register contained one surviving faithful prophet, while heaven’s register contained seven thousand additional names! The lesson is as humbling as it is comforting: the fact that we cannot see God’s faithful people does not establish that they do not exist. Heaven’s attendance register is not compiled from the names that happen to appear before our eyes.
The story of Cornelius extends the mystery further. Here was a Roman centurion, a Gentile outside the covenantal identity of Israel, yet Acts 10 describes him as devout, God-fearing, generous and prayerful. Before Peter arrived to proclaim the gospel, an angel informed Cornelius that his prayers and alms had come up as a memorial before God (Acts 10:4). The Lord had taken notice of a man whom the prevailing religious divisions might have encouraged others to overlook. Yet the story does not end with the suggestion that Cornelius needed no further revelation. God sent Peter to proclaim Jesus Christ, His death, His resurrection and the forgiveness of sins through His name. Cornelius and his household received that message, and the Holy Spirit fell upon those who heard it. Here we encounter a beautiful balance that must govern our entire discussion: God may already be working within a human heart before that person has received a full understanding of the gospel, but the proper response to such divine activity is not to withhold Christ. It is to proclaim Him! And Peter himself had to undergo a profound correction of his inherited assumptions before entering the house of Cornelius. “God hath shewed me that I should not call any man common or unclean,” he declared (Acts 10:28). The apostle had discovered that the boundaries of his previous social and religious expectations were not adequate measures of the reach of God’s redemptive purpose.
And what shall we say of the Ethiopian eunuch, that distinguished official of Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, entrusted with the administration of her treasury, whose remarkable encounter with Philip unfolds in Acts 8:26–39? Here was a man of considerable political standing and financial responsibility, travelling in an impressive chariot across the desert road from Jerusalem to Gaza, reading the prophet Isaiah as he journeyed. His official position commanded respect, his proximity to royal power testified to his importance, and his possession of the prophetic Scriptures disclosed a spiritual hunger that his outward circumstances could scarcely have revealed to a passing stranger. He had travelled to Jerusalem to worship, yet the precise extent of his understanding of the Messiah remained incomplete. And there is a further poignancy in his description as a eunuch, a condition that recalls the exclusions prescribed in Deuteronomy 23:1, even as Isaiah 56:3–5 holds forth the extraordinary promise of divine acceptance to eunuchs who embrace God’s covenant. What a magnificent setting for the revelation of grace! Here was a man whose bodily condition, foreign nationality and official identity might have encouraged others to classify him before ever enquiring into his heart. Yet heaven had taken notice of his search for understanding. The Spirit directed Philip to approach the chariot, and the evangelist encountered a man wrestling with Isaiah’s description of the suffering servant. “Understandest thou what thou readest?” Philip enquired. “How can I, except some man should guide me?” came the wonderfully candid reply (Acts 8:30–31). No pretence of complete knowledge, no defensive display of intellectual superiority, no attempt to disguise the limits of his understanding. Here was a powerful royal official sufficiently humble to admit that he needed instruction! And beginning with that very Scripture, Philip preached Jesus unto him. The man responded to the gospel, requested baptism and continued his journey rejoicing. The Ethiopian’s incomplete understanding had not prevented God from arranging an encounter through which the gospel would become clear. His circumstances had not disqualified him from believing. Indeed, while the chariot carried a royal treasurer through the desert, heaven was conducting a far more consequential transaction: a searching soul was being brought to the knowledge of Jesus Christ. The man who administered the treasures of an earthly queen was about to discover riches that no earthly treasury could contain!
But the mystery becomes even more searching when we discover that the limitations of human judgement were not confined to outsiders, religious traditionalists or inexperienced believers. Even the apostles themselves required correction. Consider the extraordinary confrontation between Paul and Peter at Antioch, recorded in Galatians 2:11–14. Peter, the apostle who had received the remarkable vision preceding his visit to Cornelius, who had witnessed the Holy Spirit fall upon Gentile believers, and who had publicly acknowledged that God showed no partiality, nevertheless withdrew from eating with Gentile Christians when certain men associated with James arrived. Fear of the circumcision party had overcome the implications of the very gospel he had been commissioned to proclaim. Other Jewish believers followed his example, and even Barnabas was carried away by their hypocrisy. Imagine the spectacle! Men who confessed the same Lord, had received the same Spirit and belonged to the same household of faith were being separated at the dining table by distinctions that the gospel had already overcome. And Paul, recognising the contradiction, withstood Peter to his face. What a formidable correction! The apostle who had once required a heavenly vision to understand that he must not call any man common or unclean was now being reminded, publicly and unmistakably, that the truth of the gospel must govern his treatment of fellow believers. The issue was not whether Peter possessed saving faith, for Paul was addressing a fellow apostle. The issue was that a genuine disciple of Jesus Christ could behave in a manner that obscured the very fellowship Christ had established. If Peter, with all his extraordinary experiences, could succumb to fear and social pressure in his treatment of fellow believers, what grounds have the rest of us for imagining that our own perceptions and classifications are infallible? How many people have we kept at a distance, not because Christ has rejected them, but because our inherited prejudices have not yet surrendered to the full implications of His gospel?
And then comes the astonishing disagreement between Paul and Barnabas over John Mark, recorded in Acts 15:36–41, a dispute that introduces another deeply human dimension to the mystery of discipleship. John Mark had previously withdrawn from the missionary company at Pamphylia and had not continued with them in the work (Acts 13:13; 15:38). When Barnabas proposed taking him on another missionary journey, Paul objected. To Paul, Mark’s earlier departure constituted sufficient reason not to entrust him with the demands of the proposed mission. Barnabas, however, was prepared to give him another opportunity. The disagreement became so sharp that the two distinguished servants of Christ separated, Barnabas taking Mark to Cyprus while Paul chose Silas. What a remarkable scene! Two men who had laboured together in the gospel, endured opposition together and witnessed the grace of God among the Gentiles could not agree upon the suitability of a younger fellow worker. We should not pretend that Scripture explicitly identifies which man was right in every aspect of the disagreement. Paul had legitimate concerns about reliability in demanding missionary service, while Barnabas evidently saw reason to invest further confidence in Mark. Yet the subsequent record introduces a beautiful development. Years later, Paul himself would write to Timothy, “Take Mark, and bring him with thee: for he is profitable to me for the ministry” (2 Timothy 4:11). What a magnificent sentence! The man whose earlier conduct had rendered him unsuitable in Paul’s judgement had become useful to Paul in the ministry. Whatever the precise circumstances of his subsequent growth and reconciliation, the biblical record forbids us to treat an earlier failure as the final measure of a person’s usefulness to God. Paul had once declined to take Mark; later, Paul specifically requested that Mark be brought to him. The earlier assessment had not become an everlasting sentence! And if we may permit ourselves a moment of affectionate humour, what a fortunate thing that heaven does not permanently file every servant of God under the heading of their least impressive performance! How many promising disciples would disappear from our congregations, ministries and missionary endeavours if the Almighty adopted our occasional enthusiasm for turning temporary disappointment into permanent disqualification?
And if the experiences of Peter, Barnabas and John Mark have not yet sufficiently humbled our confidence in human judgement, let us journey to Damascus, where an even more astonishing encounter awaits us. There we meet Ananias, a disciple of Jesus Christ, receiving an extraordinary instruction from the risen Lord: he must go to the house of Judas, in the street called Straight, and enquire for a man named Saul of Tarsus. But Ananias knows this name! Indeed, the very mention of it is sufficient to awaken the most alarming recollections. Saul is no harmless stranger, no misunderstood eccentric, no merely controversial religious thinker. He is the notorious persecutor whose campaign against the followers of Jesus has brought suffering upon the saints in Jerusalem, and who has travelled to Damascus armed with authority to arrest those who call upon the name of Christ. Ananias has heard the reports. He knows the danger. His apprehension is neither imaginary nor unreasonable. And so, with the understandable caution of a man who would prefer not to become the latest exhibit in Saul’s catalogue of persecuted Christians, he respectfully reminds the Lord of the man’s dreadful reputation: “Lord, I have heard by many of this man, how much evil he hath done to thy saints at Jerusalem” (Acts 9:13). One can almost hear the trembling astonishment beneath the words. Surely the Lord cannot be unaware of the identity of the man to whose house He is sending His servant! But heaven has already witnessed something that Ananias has not. On the road to Damascus, the persecutor has encountered the risen Christ. The man who departed Jerusalem breathing threats and slaughter has been brought trembling before the very Lord whose disciples he intended to destroy. And now comes the divine declaration that overturns every expectation formed by Saul’s public reputation: “Go thy way: for he is a chosen vessel unto me, to bear my name before the Gentiles, and kings, and the children of Israel” (Acts 9:15). A chosen vessel! Saul of Tarsus! The persecutor whom the disciples feared had been appointed to become one of the most consequential proclaimers of the gospel in Christian history. Ananias knew the warrants Saul carried; Christ knew the commission he would fulfil. Ananias knew the suffering Saul had inflicted; Christ knew the suffering Saul would endure for His name. Ananias knew the persecutor’s history; Christ knew the apostle’s future. And when Ananias finally entered the house and laid his hands upon him, he addressed the former persecutor with two words of extraordinary tenderness: “Brother Saul” (Acts 9:17). Brother! What a magnificent transformation of human recognition under the instruction of divine revelation! The man whom Ananias had every reason to fear was now being received as a brother in Christ. Yet the Lord had not required Ananias to pretend that Saul’s previous wickedness was imaginary. He had simply revealed that Saul’s past was no longer the whole story. And herein lies one of the most comforting truths in all Scripture: the person whose history supplies abundant evidence for our apprehension may nevertheless be the very person upon whom Christ has already laid His transforming hand. How many Sauls have we permanently condemned by the records of their former lives, without allowing for the possibility that the Lord who confronted Saul on the Damascus road may also be accomplishing a work of grace beyond our observation? How many people have we continued to address according to the accusations of yesterday when Christ is calling us to recognise what His grace has begun today? Samuel had to learn that an impressive outward appearance did not establish divine appointment; Ananias had to learn that a dreadful outward reputation did not prevent divine election. One was corrected concerning the man who looked qualified; the other concerning the man who appeared hopelessly disqualified. And in both encounters the same sovereign truth prevailed: the Lord sees what His servants cannot see, knows what His servants do not know, and is under no obligation to confine His redemptive purposes within the boundaries of their expectations.
And now comes a remarkable testimony from a quarter that many Christians might never have thought to examine. In Sahih al-Bukhari 3448, Abu Huraira narrates a declaration attributed to Muhammad concerning the return of Isa ibn Maryam, Jesus the son of Mary. Muhammad begins by invoking the One in whose hand his soul rests, and proceeds to declare that Jesus will descend among humanity as a just judge. The same expectation appears in Sahih Muslim 155a. Consider the extraordinary significance of this acknowledgement! Here, within a religious tradition whose understanding of Jesus differs profoundly from the Christian confession, we nevertheless encounter an explicit expectation that the son of Mary will return in judicial authority. And when we turn to the New Testament, we discover Jesus Himself declaring, “For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son” (John 5:22). The apostle Peter likewise proclaims that Jesus Christ is the One ordained by God to judge the living and the dead (Acts 10:42), while Paul announces that God has appointed a day upon which He will judge the world in righteousness through the Man whom He has ordained, giving assurance of this appointment by raising Him from the dead (Acts 17:31). What an arresting convergence upon the figure of Jesus Christ! The Christian Scriptures proclaim His universal judicial authority, while an important Islamic tradition acknowledges His future return as a just judge. We must not exaggerate the agreement, for the two traditions differ substantially concerning His identity, His crucifixion, His resurrection and the precise nature of His judicial office. Nor does Muhammad’s oath establish that he personally entrusted his soul to Jesus for salvation. But neither should we overlook what the narration actually affirms. The very Jesus whom the New Testament identifies as the divinely appointed Judge is acknowledged in this Islamic tradition as the returning just judge. And if the Christian testimony is true that all judgement has been committed to the Son, then the eternal standing of every human being, including Muhammad himself, falls within the authority of Jesus Christ. What an extraordinary reason to abandon the arrogance of presuming to occupy His judgement seat! We may examine Muhammad’s teachings against the testimony of Scripture, acknowledge their disagreements and proclaim the gospel without compromise. But the final judgement of Muhammad, as of every other human being, belongs not to the Christian commentator, the Muslim scholar or the religious controversialist, but to the righteous Judge Himself. Our calling is to bear witness to Jesus Christ, not to seize the authority that the Father has committed to Him.
Indeed, the Scriptures themselves warn us against confusing outward religious visibility with inward spiritual reality. Jesus declared that not everyone who says to Him, “Lord, Lord,” shall enter the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 7:21). Some will appeal to their prophecies, their exorcisms and their mighty works performed in His name, only to hear the devastating words, “I never knew you” (Matthew 7:23). What a solemn warning to those who mistake religious prominence for divine approval! A person may possess the vocabulary of faith, occupy the architecture of religion, enjoy the applause of congregations and display every outward ornament of spiritual distinction, yet remain unknown to Christ in the saving sense. The clerical collar, the bishop’s mitre, the prophet’s elaborate title, the preacher’s thunderous microphone and the congregation’s enthusiastic applause are not substitutes for the inward reality of faith and obedience. Conversely, the Scriptures introduce us to people whose faith was initially concealed beneath fear, disreputable histories, social exclusion or incomplete understanding. The contrast ought to extinguish both religious arrogance and spiritual despair. We must neither presume that everyone who appears religious belongs to Christ nor conclude that everyone whose faith we cannot recognise is necessarily beyond His reach.
There is, of course, a danger in misunderstanding this consolation. Secret discipleship must never be converted into a theological licence for denying Christ indefinitely, excusing deliberate disobedience or declaring that all religious beliefs are merely different expressions of the same saving truth. Jesus calls His followers to acknowledge Him before others (Matthew 10:32–33). He commands repentance, faith and obedience. He declares Himself to be the way, the truth and the life (John 14:6), and the apostles proclaim that salvation is found in no other name (Acts 4:12). These declarations are not diminished by our humility concerning the hidden condition of individual souls. Rather, they make our invitation all the more urgent. We are not called to assure people that an unexamined religious identity will suffice. We are called to introduce them to Jesus Christ, trusting that the Shepherd who knows His sheep is able to gather them from places we have never imagined. There is a world of difference between acknowledging the limitations of our knowledge and surrendering the truth of the gospel. The former is humility; the latter would be a betrayal of the very Christ whose saving grace we seek to magnify.
And what a comforting truth this becomes for the father praying for a wandering son, the mother weeping over a daughter whose life appears to have departed from every religious expectation, the husband or wife burdened for an unbelieving spouse, or the believer who has watched a loved one struggle through years of doubt, confusion and spiritual resistance. We cannot manufacture faith in another human heart. We cannot see all that God may be doing there. We cannot confidently predict the hour at which a hidden conviction may become a public confession. Rahab’s faith became visible when the spies arrived. Joseph’s courage emerged when the crucified body of Jesus required burial. Nicodemus’s journey unfolded across encounters that Scripture records only in part. Cornelius received a fuller revelation when Peter arrived at his house. The Ethiopian eunuch received understanding along a desert road. John Mark’s usefulness emerged beyond an earlier disappointment. Saul’s conversion overturned a reputation that had understandably terrified the Church. None of these stories permits us to presume upon another person’s salvation, but each forbids the despairing conclusion that what we cannot presently observe must therefore be impossible for God. The parent who has exhausted every argument, the spouse who has prayed through seemingly endless disappointment, and the friend who has watched a loved one drift into spiritual indifference may find here a reason to continue praying without surrendering to presumption. For the Lord who sees the heart is not limited by the apparent hopelessness of the circumstances surrounding it.
And there is a particularly magnificent declaration from the lips of Jesus Christ Himself that brings this mystery into even sharper focus: “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd” (John 10:16). We must first understand these words within their proper biblical setting. Jesus was speaking of the gathering of His people beyond the immediate Jewish fold, anticipating the inclusion of the Gentiles in the one redeemed community over which He reigns as Shepherd. This is not a declaration that all religious traditions independently lead to salvation, nor is it an invitation to manufacture an indefinite multitude of secret disciples whose allegiance to Christ need never be established. The promise is far more glorious and considerably more exacting. The other sheep belong to the Shepherd’s redemptive purpose, but they must be brought; they must hear His voice; and they are gathered into one flock under one Shepherd. Notice the extraordinary emphasis upon the initiative and authority of Christ. He does not say that His existing disciples have already identified every sheep. He does not submit His knowledge of the flock to the geographical boundaries, religious classifications or inherited expectations of those who presently follow Him. He declares, with sovereign certainty, that there are others whom He will bring. And herein lies the legitimate and immensely comforting application to our discussion: the disciples’ present knowledge of the flock was not an exhaustive account of the Shepherd’s redemptive purpose. Peter would eventually discover this truth in the house of Cornelius; Philip would witness its unfolding along the desert road to Gaza; and Paul would carry its implications across the Gentile world. The distinction is indispensable. We cannot invoke John 10:16 to pronounce every sincere seeker an already established disciple of Christ, but neither may we assume that the people presently beyond the visible boundaries of Christian fellowship are beyond the reach of His saving call. The Shepherd knows whom He will gather, and the Church has been commissioned to proclaim the voice by which He gathers them. What a magnificent correction to religious arrogance! We are not the proprietors of the sheep, the authors of the flock or the custodians of some private register limiting the reach of divine grace. We are servants of the Shepherd, entrusted with His message and commanded to proclaim it faithfully. And if the Lord Himself has declared His intention to gather others, what astonishing presumption would it require for His servants to confuse the present limits of their observation with the ultimate limits of His redeeming work!
Perhaps this is where the mystery becomes most personally searching. Have we sometimes been too quick to dismiss those whose outward circumstances offend our expectations of religious propriety? Have we confused familiarity with church language for spiritual maturity, public participation for inward transformation, and religious respectability for saving faith? Have we imagined that the Almighty must first consult our denominational registers before recognising a soul that turns toward Him? The examples of Rahab, the repentant woman, Nicodemus, Joseph, Cornelius, the Ethiopian eunuch, John Mark, Saul and the seven thousand preserved in Elijah’s day ought to make us considerably slower to condemn and infinitely more diligent in proclaiming the gospel. We have been commissioned to preach Christ, not to assume the omniscience of Christ. We are servants of the Shepherd, not the owners of His sheep. And if the great prophet Samuel could stand in Jesse’s house and mistake the outward appearance of Eliab for the divine appointment of a king, perhaps the rest of us should exercise considerably greater caution before announcing that we have successfully identified everyone whom God has accepted and everyone whom He has rejected.
And so the invitation must go forth without reservation, without prejudice and without respect of persons. Believe in Jesus Christ wherever you are! Whether you are seated in the front pew of a magnificent cathedral, standing in the courtyard of a mosque, confined within the walls of a prison, walking through the corridors of a university, labouring in a marketplace, presiding over the affairs of government, or living in circumstances that have persuaded others to abandon hope concerning you, the invitation of the gospel is addressed to you. Whether your head is crowned with an academic bonnet, covered by a carefully arranged ghutra, concealed beneath a religious veil, adorned with the insignia of political office, or bowed beneath the burden of a reputation that society has refused to forgive, the Saviour’s invitation remains the same. You do not need to manufacture a respectable history before approaching Him. You do not need to conceal the wounds of your past, pretend that your understanding is complete or wait until the religiously respectable consider you worthy of divine attention. Come to Jesus Christ. Believe in Him. Receive His forgiveness. Hear His words and follow Him. The woman who wept at His feet was not turned away. The thief who turned to Him upon the cross was not told that his opportunity had expired. And the promise remains: “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John 6:37).
In the end, the mystery of secret discipleship is not an invitation to speculate endlessly about the eternal destiny of particular historical figures. It is an invitation to humility before the immeasurable knowledge of God, confidence in the saving sufficiency of Jesus Christ, patience with those whose spiritual journeys we do not fully understand, and renewed urgency in proclaiming the gospel to every creature. We know in part, and we see through a glass, darkly. We may misunderstand the beginnings of faith, overlook its quiet growth, misjudge its imperfect expression and fail to recognise the people in whom the grace of God is already at work. But the Lord is never bewildered by the condition of a human soul. He does not mistake reputation for reality, outward prominence for inward allegiance, or human condemnation for divine judgement. The professor’s forbidding countenance does not conceal anything from Him. The preacher’s thunderous proclamation does not impress Him beyond the truth of the heart from which it proceeds. The Muslim’s garments, the woman’s veil, the prostitute’s reputation, the millionaire’s possessions and the politician’s elaborate procession are all equally transparent before His searching eyes. For the same God who looked beyond Eliab’s impressive stature and recognised David in the fields, who revealed to Ananias that the feared persecutor had become His chosen vessel, and who preserved seven thousand faithful Israelites beyond Elijah’s observation, has never ceased to distinguish the outward appearance from the inward reality.
And therein lies our extraordinary comfort. The Lord knows those who are His. He knew Rahab within Jericho’s doomed walls. He knew Joseph behind the caution of his public position. He knew Nicodemus beneath the shadows of Jerusalem. He knew the seven thousand whom Elijah could not see. He knew the woman whose tears spoke more eloquently than Simon’s religious respectability. He knew the Ethiopian official searching the Scriptures along a lonely desert road. He knew John Mark beyond his earlier failure. He knew Saul of Tarsus beyond the terrible reputation that had preceded him to Damascus. And He knows, with perfect knowledge, every human heart that has ever turned toward Him. Let us therefore proclaim Christ with conviction, extend His invitation with compassion, examine ourselves with humility, and leave the secrets of human hearts to the righteous Judge of all the earth. For the mystery is not that God has lost sight of His disciples, but that we have never possessed His perfect vision.
We may not know all who are His. But He knows them, every one. And wherever His voice is heard, let every soul believe in Jesus Christ.