Bits of gladness and of sorrow,
Strangely crossed and interlaid;
Bits of cloud belt and of rainbow,
In deep alternation braid;
Bits of storm when winds are warring,
Bits of calm when blasts are stay'd,
Bits of silence and of uproar,
Bits of sunlight and of shade.
And it's more than poetic fancy; it is stern reality. Like that Sea
of Galilee, the sea of life is sometimes calm and sometimes stormy,
sometimes reposing under the soft smiles of a sunshiny sky, and
sometimes ruffled and whipped by the restless gales.
Wearied from the toils and turmoils of the day, our Lord constrains
His disciples to get into a ship, and to go before Him to the other
side, while He sent the multitude away. When He had done this, He
retired. Whither? Into a neighboring mountain. For what? To pray.
He wished to be alone; His heart yearned for communication with
His Father; He also needed strength and preparation for the work
and conflicts of the morrow. How could He secure it? By prayer.
How suggestive and instructive for us. Our Lord needed thus to
strengthen and prepare Himself for life's difficulties and battles.
Let us learn a lesson from Him,--discover where the secret of our
power lies.
But while thus engaged, His disciples were in danger upon the sea.
A fearful storm, one of those sudden, violent squalls, peculiar to
the Sea of Galilee, had arisen, and was lashing the sea with violent
fury. Try as they might, and they were accustomed to the sails and
oars, they were perfectly helpless, and the greatest misfortune was
that the Master was not with them. Had He been there, even though
asleep, they might have roused and brought Him to their rescue. But,
alas! He was far away. Consternation and despair seized hold upon
them, when, at a sudden, they discern in the distance the form of a
man walking on the foaming crests of the waters. What? Could it be
He? Indeed, there He was, and He speaks to them. No sooner did He
set His foot on the ship than the tossing waters sank down to their
quiet bed. There was a great calm.
Beloved, these stories of the Bible have not been written for
entertainment, but as the Apostle declares: "Whatever was written
aforetime was written for our learning, that we through patience
and comfort of the Scriptures might have hope." Life has its times
of prosperities, and it has its times when the wind is contrary
and wave dashes fast upon wave. The occasion of this storm may be
various. Sometimes it is the matter of livelihood. Circumstances
over which we have no control overwhelm us, embarrass us. Try as
hard as we may, like these disciples, who made only thirty furlongs,
we can make no headway; yes, in spite of our willingness and energy,
we go backward; reverses set in, loss is ours. We are mightily
tossed by the waves, and the clouds look dreadfully frowning and
dark. Sometimes it is bodily ailment; suffering of one sort or
another comes over us like a destructive wave; we are called to
battle with disease, the probabilities and improbabilities of ever
becoming strong again,--it is bitter experience. Or it may be the
wave of bereavement. Like this little fisherman's craft, we are
carried down into the depths of heart-rending sorrow; our eyes are
wet with tears; before us closes the grave upon one whom we would
have given the whole world to retain.
Contrary winds! Dashing billows! Rolling, tossing sea! And imagine
not that by believing the Gospel, your being a Christian, will
make you exempt from these storms. We are sometimes told: Do what
is right, and you will not suffer. It sounds very plausible, but
it is not true,--very unfrequently otherwise. Why was Joseph cast
into prison? He did that which was right. Why were the martyrs put
to death? These disciples in the path of duty when the storm came
upon them were doing what had been commanded by the Lord. You may
not infrequently be exposed to fierce blasts by being a Christian
consistent, consecrated in life and duties. It matters not what your
profession or portion in life may be, whether you are a Christian
or not, godly or ungodly, rich or poor, famous or obscure, the
storms of life will certainly, with more or less violence, overtake
you. There is no exemption, no escape from them. Now, what shall we
think, what say, to sustain ourselves amid experiences like that?
It may be well enough to note the experience of those disciples
yonder on the Sea of Galilee. "And when the disciples saw Him
walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit;
and they cried out for fear." What could it be, that moving form?
A man? No, impossible! How could a man tread upon the waters? Then
it must be a ghost, an apparition, a grim visitor from the other
worlds. And as this idea forced itself upon them, they could not
refrain from crying out with terror. Thus, my dear hearers, God's
people are sometimes perplexed, when scenes of distress appear,
and bereavement, humiliation, and sorrow appear upon life's sea.
They are sometimes disposed to cry out with terror, "What can it
mean?"--these dark and threatening forms. Surely, a loving and
beneficent God would not alarm His children, and add still greater
anxiety and anguish to their already fierce battling with the waves
and the elements. My beloved, that is just what God does, and wisdom
on our part, our sustaining strength, and the comfort consists in
this, that we recognize that form, nor, mistaking it, cry out in
terror.
That storm on the Galilean Sea was not an accident, it did not come
by chance, it was sent by and with the permission of the Governor
of the winds and the waves; and when the billows were rolling
fiercest and fastest, His hand was there guiding and controlling.
None less so with the streams of life. These are not accidental,
but intentional. They do not come by chance, but are sent by, and
with the permission of, the Governor of the universe, and when the
billows are rolling fast, His hand is guiding and controlling our
afflictions. Perplexing as they may be, they are part of God's grand
and sovereign system of dealing with us. It is He, His Providence,
His divine appointment and arrangement, not some strange, unmerciful
power, which people call Fate, Chance, Nature, but the divine form
of our blessed Savior. That is the first thing we must bear in mind
amid life's storms.
"But straightway Jesus spoke unto them, saying, Be of good cheer;
it is I; be not afraid." Human lips cannot describe the effect
which these words uttered by that familiar voice must have had upon
them. In a moment the whole truth flashed upon their minds,--the
apparition so much dreaded was no other than He whom, above all
others, they longed to see. There is a common expression in English,
which speaks of "blessings in disguise." Such are all of life's
untoward happenings to a Christian--"blessings in disguise."
That Galilean experience in the night and storm gave to these
disciples enlarged ideas of the Master and His power, it developed
their faith and trust in Him. Not for all the toil and terrors would
they have foregone it. They never forgot it. Beloved, the time will
come when you will look back upon that experience that wrenched your
soul, that household cross that proved so heavy, that disheartening
reverse that caused a big black mark to be drawn through your life's
prospects and plans, those hours of dread and darkness, as the very
occasions of your highest blessings, the making of yourselves. The
"evils of life"--speak not thus--are blessings in disguise. "Nearer,
my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee, e'en though it be a cross that
raiseth me." Have you ever seen anything but a cross raise men?
The smiles of prosperity, the sunshiny sky, the even waves of the
sea of life are not the means calculated to raise a soul nearer to
God; that takes the buffetings, the storms, and the rising billows
(blessings in disguise), sent by a wise God in loving purpose.
And one more. When the disciples recognized and realized that it
was their Master, their fear vanished. Let the winds blow, the ship
toss, and the waves run high, they felt secure,--He was with them.
It is a simple thought, yet it constitutes the whole of religion,
the essence of faith, our comfort in life, our hope in death, our
all in all, this one thought: He is with us, Jesus, the Master.
I am thinking this moment of a man,--his eyesight impaired, sickness
upon his body, his head bending low with age, striving hard to
live, afraid to die. The religion of Christ was never his, and he
desires none of it now. A more melancholy lot never was man's as he
is tossed about with many a conflict and many a doubt, fightings
and fears within, without, dissatisfied, unhappy. I am thinking
of another,--his eyes have not seen the light of day for eight
years; his once powerful frame is now as delicate as a child's, his
hair is gray from much weariness and pain; but none was ever more
cheerful, submissive, hopeful, and happy. The difference? The one
has recognized the divine form walking on the surging billows, and
has taken Him into his life's boat; the other has not, and will not
do so. With the one it is a "great calm," stillness, joy. With the
other, tumult, danger, and despair. That is the difference,--_what_
a difference! So, whether it be sickness, or that the world goes
against us, or that we are straitened in our means of living, or
experiencing the loss of the dearest and nearest; not _from_ them
has Christ and Christianity promised to save us, but _in_ them,
trusting in Him, it has promised, and that we shall feel safe.
And that is the one great practical lesson of the day's texts, that
is why they are recorded in the Bible, that we may have this faith,
this comfort and hope. Then in the day of trouble we shall think
of something more than the mere earthly and temporal look of the
trouble; we should all think of God in it, of God guiding it, and of
His sheltering and sustaining hand in it. Then when we are sick, our
thoughts would not be so taken up with the mere pains and annoyances
we suffer, the probabilities or the improbabilities of our getting
back to health and strength again; but whether we get better or not,
the remembrance of the Hand of our Savior in it will make us feel
easy, submissive, and patient under it, as no other strength can.
And so with all other trouble. Amid the waves of the sea of life,
which is seldom calm, and often swells into mountainous billows,
let us heed the voice of the Savior, "Be of good cheer, it is I."
Let us toil on. No contrary wind can last forever. After a time we
shall reach the other shore, and when we touch that, we shall be
done with these storms. Then will there be a great calm. Amen.