The Sea of Galilee: The Tempest Stilled

Christ had fed five thousand with five loaves and two fishes. The miracle, in connexion with His discourses, at once suggested to the multitude that lawgiver who fed the fathers with manna in the desert, and they began to whisper their surmise to one another, till the rumour ran, “Verily, this is that Prophet who is to come into the world.” Like unto Moses, like the great lawgiver in his prodigies, and like him in his peerless revelations of the mind of God, and coming at the predicted conjuncture, why should they defer any longer? Instead of the besotted and imbecile Herod, and as a deliverer from the modern Pharaoh, the taskmaster Roman, why should they not obey the indications of Providence, and install at once as their monarch a Prophet whose band was a horn of plenty, and His lips a lively oracle?

Jesus knew their thoughts, and He deprecated such procedure. To be king of the Jews was to Him no ambition; and a popular rising, a tumultuary proclamation of a rival prince, would only bring misery on

His kindred, the obscure descendants of David, and famish a pretext to His priestly enemies. Christ’s kingdom was not of this world; and up to the last K-eek of His mortal life — up to the time of that prosession from Jericho to Jerusalem, when the pent-up enthusiasm of years burst forth in “hosannas to the Son of David” — He never permitted any demonstration which might either alarm the rulers or compromise His apostles. And as He could see the movement in the concourse, and as He knew that the populace would have abettors, all too eager, in His own disciples — in the men who panted for high places in the coming kingdom — u he constrained his disciples to get into a ship,” and go before Him to Bethsaida; whilst, relieved of their presence, He himself undertook to dismiss the multitude.

Soon was the encampment broken up, and, with thankful acknowledgments on the one side, and kind and gentle parting counsels on the other, the crowd melted away. The last stragglers had rounded the shoulder of the hill; and yonder pinnace on the lake would be the boat with the twelve. All was growing silent and cool; and as Jesus sate in the solitude and gazed on the flattened grass, where His guests had lately dined, and where the birds of the air now came for their banquet, the curtain of darkness spread over the scene. But He Himself did not withdraw. In order to find the society He wished, there was no need that He should go to Bethsaida. Already in that solitary place His Father was present, and Jesus designed to spend the night-watches in communion and converse with Him. But whilst from that river of pleasures He was regaling His weary spirit, and fortifying His soul for further toils and trials, already the night wind sighed in the mountain glen, and loud gusts roaring down the gorge announced what a wild time the voyagers would be finding on the water. But it was not till long after midnight that Jesus went to join them. Bending on their oars, and exerting all their strength, they had made only three or four miles against the blast, when their practised eye espied an object approaching from the shore. No ship, no osprey skimming with outspread wings, — now hid behind a lofty billow, now poising on its crest — it must surely be a spirit, the guardian angel of the lake, or some phantom from the unseen world; and as they dropped their oars, a cry of consternation reached the mysterious pilgrim, now plainly a human figure, and who looked as if he were passing by.* Instantly, however, and not desiring to practise on their fears, Jesus exclaimed, u. Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid.” In thr harness, and in the lull of the tempest, Peter was sure it was the Master; and starting up, he called out, “Lord, if it be thou, command me to come to thee on the water.” Whilst, doubtless,

* Mark vi. 48; Matt. xiv. 22, 23.

THE SEA OP GALILEE: THE TEMPEST STILLED. 1(57

designed as a tribute to his Master’s might, possibly a certain measure of curiosity and vanity might ming’e with the offer, and Peter might feel, u I, too, would like to do as much: I wonder if I, too, could tread the sea.” And as Jesus bade him “come,” he vaulted from the vessel’s edge; but possibly just then a squall struck up, and as in a moment Peter realised his predicament — the black gulf below, and the angry waves all round — he rued his rashness; a panic seized him; the liquid pavement yielded, and in the cold abyss he would have settled down, had not an outstretched hand forthwith met his cry of terror, and raised him to the surface, and borne him up the vessel’s side. That instant the wind ceased; and the grateful voyagers came and worshipped Jesus, saying, “Of a truth thou art the Son of God:” and just as yester evening the miraculous feast had made them believers, but in the interval the storm had anew made them infidels, so once more they yielded to their amazement, and felt as if their faith could never fail them again.

An incident which shews the fugacity of our convictions: how faint and fleeting are our strongest impressions. Perhaps the disciples were a little mortified at being sent on shipboard, when they expected in a few minutes to hear their Master proclaimed King of Israel; but whatever might be their feeling, they had come away direct from a wonderful scene — a scene quite as wonderful as if their Master had bidden the firmament open and rain loaves on the multitude. They could hardly help feeling, what even the strangers felt, that this was “the Prophet,” in very deed the Son of God, as they themselves had often hailed Him. But the wind fell contrary. They had to haul down the yard, and fold away the sail; and, weary as they were, they must needs get out the oars and take to rowing. This made them cross and sullen, and haply, in some hearts, the thought was rising, Could not this man who gave these strangers such a feast, have given his own servants fair weather? At all events, they were not so favoured as on a former voyage. There was no Jesus asleep in the hinder part of the ship, whom they could go and awaken, with the demand, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” That of itself was perplexing. Their previous perils He had always shared, and out of them all delivered them; but this time there was no hope from that quarter, for in quitting the solitary place, they had taken the only vessel with them: and now they felt very disheartened and forlorn, and thought it quite possible they might perish, and their Master far away.

A fluctuation of feeling which happens constantly. Heading some work of Christian evidence, you felt so certain that the saying is faithful, “Christ Jesu3 came into the world to save sinners,” that you said to yourself, That point is settled: that fact is history:

by that conclusion I abide for ever. But by-and-by, in some cold sophistical society, among cavilling acquaintances, your mind was unhinged or your soul was frost-bitten; there was no longer the same point and precision in the proof; or you exemplified, what we so often see, the difference between the fact that is firm and the heart that is fixed. Or, when in distress about your soul, you took up the Bible, and you were directed to some gospel with Heaven’s sunshine beaming over it, and you said, u Bless the Lord, O my soul, who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases;” and you resolved that, whatever you might hereafter forget, you would never forget the good-will of God and the merits of Immanuel — that, whatever else you might doubt, you would never question the amplitude of the atonement and the security of the sinner who pleads it. You had found a pearl of great price, and silent tears or outspoken thanks proclaimed your happiness. But you fell asleep on some enchanted ground, and woke up to find that your treasure was gone: you came in from life’s coarse avocations and found that the gem in your signet had dropped out whilst you dredged in the ditch or moiled in the quarry. In the softness of an idle life, or the secularity of a busy one; more likely still, through some sinful step or guilty connivance, you lost the blessedness you spake of; and when sober or anxious moments came again, yon could neither see the gospel so true, nor the Saviour so gracious, as. you had seen them heretofore. Or in some auspicious season you were so moved and melted by the goodness of the Lord — you stood so astonished at some singular interposition, some miraculous feast or opportune mercy — that you felt you could never be diffident or desponding any more. But anon, the barrel of meal was failing; difficulties were thickening around you; a tempest was rising, and like the disciples sent into the midst of a storm when they hoped to see a coronation — like them you consider not the miracle of the loaves, for your heart is hardened. You are so mortified and so miserable that you begin to ask, Hath God forgotten to be gracious? Hath He in anger shut up His tender mercies? And it is perhaps more than you can do to keep from calumniating the ways of Providence, and charging God foolishly.

The truth is, there is in us no feeling permanently good except what is put there and kept there by God Himself. To a sinless being, the thing unnatural is to doubt the goodness and the truth of God: to a sinful being, it is hard to believe in the benevolence toward himself of a holy God — it is hard to believe in God at alL And though strength of evidence — though stress of argument may sometimes make us fancy that we are thoroughly convinced — though a brilliant presentation of the truth, or a striking Providence may intensify our indolent assent into a transient assurance or fervid emotion, in order to sustain the right feeling, nothing less will suffice than a constant interposition of God’s own Spirit, who alone can conquer into a habitual dependence on God our carnal enmity.

For the presence of that Comforter — for the calm and continuous convictions which He imparts — let us ever pray; and whilst the men whom Moses, and the prophets, and a Saviour risen from the dead, cannot convince — whilst they keep ever repeating, “Rabbi, shew us another sign” — be ours the apostles’ wiser petition, “Lord, increase our faith.” Whilst the morbid appetite for marvels keeps ever crying, “Give, give,” let us, as we gaze on the marvels, covet earnestly that best gift, a sincere and docile spirit — a purged and open eye. Equally remote from that scepticism which forgets what a few hours ago its own hands were handling, and that superstition which descries a phantom more readily than a living Saviour, let us pray for that faith which, lulling the storm in the mariner, will leave us no longer so many Reubens, “unstable as water,” and who can never “prevail.” Let us pray for that faith which, stilling the fears and fancies that tumultuate through our own soul, will ]> ;ile a great calm, in the midst of which we may fall down and worship the Son of God.

Again: The experience of Peter shews us the distinction betwixt faith and physical courage — the difference, some would say, betwixt faith and forwardness. There was no occasion for Peter to adventure on the deep. In a few moments the Master wo aid have been on board. But the apostle felt an impulse — the same generous sort of impulse which, after his Lord’s resurrection, espying Jesus on the shore, would not wait till the vessel was worked to land, but bounded over the side and swam. He felt an impulse, and betwixt his eagerness and his wish to walk on the water, he volunteered to come to Jesus. But no sooner did he feel the cold waves swinging beneath the soles of his feet, and perceive the breakers curling on every side, than his courage froze, and he gave himself up for a drowning man. Perhaps there were in the same ship men of less courage but more faith. Had Jesus said to John, u Come to me on the water,” most likely John would have obeyed, and scarce been conscious of the warring elements. Nay, we could conceive a disciple there, so timid, so nervous and fearful, that he could only envy Peter’s valour: and yet had Jesus called to him, we could imagine that shaking reed complying, and achieving in safety the feat which proved too hard for Simon.

Yet we are very apt to confound with Christian faith the .forwardness of a precipitate spirit, or the fervour of a bold one. But, without disparaging firm nerves, and without deprecating the frankness which is affectionate and not officious, there is a great difference betwixt a brisk spirit or a brave animal on the one side, and a devout believer on the other. The advantage is all with the latter. And if, in looking to the future, you sometimes fear, “I do not know how I shall ever surmount that trial: I tremble at the prospect of that ordeal: it is like passing through fire and through water: I do not think I can bear that pain. How I envy such a one’s hardy frame, or such another’s heroic temper: but as for me I am a worm and no man:” if that consciousness of weakness shut you up to all-sufficiency, you will be more than conqueror. The temptation will be fully vanquished when the Saviour fights the battle for you. The affliction will be light when the everlasting arms are carrying at once the burden and the burden-bearer. The pain will be easily borne when Jesus lends you His own strength to bear it in. Faith is modest. It is not rash and ultroneous. It does not volunteer a promenade on the flood, or a flight through the firmament; but there is might in its modesty, and when the occasion arrives, it knows that the feet of the petrel or the wings of the eagle shall not be awanting. It knows that Christ honours the faith which honours Himself; and if it be from Himself that the invitation is issued, it will not scruple to exchange at His command the firm deck for the liquid wave, or even to tread the sea of death in the stormiest night, if thus alone it may arrive in His

presence.

Then, again, the whole incident lets out much of the mind and manner of our Lord. The multitudes He sent away, and in a little while they would be fast asleep, and dreaming of a golden age, with its wonderful banquets and royal feastings, and the Son of David reigning over them. But for neither Himself nor His apostles was any sleep designed that night. He spent it praying: and without intruding into that retirement, from which even James and John were sent away — without venturing to say what were the topics of the Mediator’s intercessions on that and similar nights — we need not hesitate to say that the world is indebted to them till this hour, and will be more indebted by and by. Like the obedience which He was daily rendering, and like the sacrifice which He was soon to offer, these prayers of the Son of God were piacular and grace-procuring. Like precious pledges left in a distant territory, they are a sign that the place will be revisited, and that God has not done with a race whose Divine Representative endured and asked so much. These prayers of the Saviour, so full of loyalty to God and of benevolence towards His human brethren, are cords of love which link the planet to the throne of God, and are earnests of a day when the heathen shall be Christ’s heritage, and the utmost parts of the earth

His possession; and notwithstanding all the fearful amount of sin which cries to heaven for vengeance, so long as one of these prayers offered on the hills of Galilee remains unanswered, the world is indestructible. “Destroy it not, for a blessing is in it.” The whole of these mercy-germs must spring up and ripen, before the great harvest of the earth is reaped.

But whilst the Saviour was praying, His apostles were toiling in rowing. Whilst He was holding congenial converse with His Father in heaven, they were maintaining a deadly struggle with the wind and the waves. And does it not seem somewhat hard that the friends of Jesus should share neither the slumbers of the multitude nor the devotions of their Master? la it not hard that, whilst the five thousand are in their beds, and whilst their Lord is in the Mount, they should be sent alone into the heart of the storm and the dangers of the deep? So, standing on the summit of an Alpine cliff, and looking down to the rocky table where for weeks the eaglets have been regaled with food fetched from the valley, it seems harsh and hardly parental when the eagle shoves her fledgelings over the face of the cliff, and, with ineffectual fluttering, they plunge down through the dizzy air, and would be dashed to pieces did not a lightning wing intercept their descent, and bear them back again to the eyrie.* The Saviour was training His apostles.

*” He will not have them to be clinging only to the sense of lits bodily

He was educating them for a life in which cold and hunger, weariness and watching, and the perils of the deep, should be no small ingredient, but where faith in Himself, where the assurance of His perpetual presence and unchanging love, should be their constant recourse. And see by what beautiful gradations He taught them the lesson. See by what progressive steps He inured them to that life of calmness in peril and joy in distress. First of all, He embarks with them, but so far secludes Himself from their approach. He lays His weary head on a pillow, and when the squall bursts on the lake He still continues to sleep, and they scarcely like to arouse Him. But as wave after wave dashes over the deck, and already the craft rolls in the water, they exclaim, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” and, mildly arising, He looks out on the tempest, and says, “Peace, be still;” and, as the petulant billows hide their heads, with magic speed across the willing lake the vessel glides into her haven. But this time He secludes Himself from their approach more effectually. Instead of shutting Himself up in slumber, He shuts Himself out of the ship altogether, and sends them to sea alone. They felt

presence, — as ivy, needing always an outward support, — but as hardyforest trees which can brave a blast; and this time he puts them forth into the danger alone, even as some loving mother-bird thrusts her fledgelings from the nest, that they may find their own wings and learn to use them.” — Trench on the Parables.

it hard. They feared they were forgotten. And it was not till He stepped into the ship, and the wind ceased, that they felt how unjust were their murmurings, and knew that, though miles lay between, every he of the oar, and every strain of the timbers, and every stress of the tempest, was marked by their Master far ZW&y, And thus were Ujsy gradually prepared for such scenes as the close of the apostolic history so vividly describes — scenes where Christ’s realised presence gave the sublimity of a commander, and, had he chosen, would have secured the honours of a demigod to a captive disciple — scenes where, no small tempest lying on it, and the water-logged vessel drifting, not on an inland lake, but over the wild Mediterranean, secure in his Master’s presence, the Hebrew prisoner paced the deck, the only cheerful passenger, and soldiers and sailors, centurion and captain, were fain to take their orders from one whom faith in an unseen Saviour had suddenly revealed as a king of men.