The Hour of Divine Inertness

‘* He was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow.” — Mazx iv. 38.

HAVE often asked myself, What is the

most disturbing theological aspect of the sea of life? Most people will answer, “It is its moments of Divine judgment.” That is not my opinion. It may be a solemn thing to me, as it was to Luther, when God seems directly to intervene by a manifestation of displeasure. But that has its comfort as well as its solemnity. It is something to feel that I am in the hand of God, even though the pressure of His hand is heavy on me. But I think the most shadowy moment of my life is when I do noé feel the pressure of the hand of God — when I am unconscious of His touch either as light or heavy. The hour when I am most stricken is the hour when

my God seems to be asleep. And to a spiritual mind it matters very little whether God seems to sleep in a calm or in a storm. To the disciples in that ship the dreadful thing was the seeming indifference in the storm; but the disciples were not yet spiritual minds — they were only afraid for their lives. What the spiritual mind fears is not a loss of the ship but a losing sight of God. I think that in point of fact we oftener cry for God on the becalmed sea than on the stormy sea. Examine your doubting moments — the times when you dread, not a God of judgment, but a God of indifference. What are these moments? Are they mainly the times of shaking, the times of war, the times of national upheaving? No; they are chiefly the days of peace. It is when the sun rises indiscriminately, when good harvests come to bad people, when no commercial crash follows illegitimate trade, when loose life is accepted as the fashion, when oppression is tolerated, when extravagance is condoned, when the sea of danger is sailed without shipwreck and the rock is struck without damage to the crew — it is then that I feel the Christ to be asleep. It is the dead calm that startles me. I long for a roll of thunder. I long for a flash of lightning. I long for a gust of the Lord’s passion. I should hail the voice of judgment as a joy.

Why sleepest Thou, O Christ? It is that I may wake Thee. Thy sleep is for my refreshing, not Thine. If I saw Thee ever on the deck, I should never feel my need of Thee. I have only learned my need of Thee from the moments of Thy seeming repose. It is well that betimes a father’s care should appear to slumber; it gives margin to the child’s freedom. Thou art not eager, O my Father, to beset me all round with Thy presence. Why shouldst Thou be! Thou wouldst have me willing in the day of Thy power. It is not obedience Thou desirest; it is longing. How shall I long for Thee unless I have moments of thirst — moments when the water is not there! If I dwell for ever in Thy beauty, I shall never know Thy beauty; I must have hours of eclipse to know it. “Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself!” cries the prophet. Why not! Thy hiding is Thy revealing. I never knew I loved Thee till the day I missed Thee on the deck. I never felt how dear Thy presence was till the cloud received Thee out of my sight. I never panted for the touch of Thy waking hand till men around me said, “He is asleep.” That sleep of Thine has been the charm of all my voyage. Thy silence told me of my love. I learned the secret when I missed Thee. Thy sleep was my heart’s waking. The cloud that hid Thy face cleared my soul. The darkness rent in twain the veil of my temple. I heard the music of Thy voice in the hour in which it did not come. I bless Thee, O Lord, that there was silence in heaven for “the space of half an hour.