MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH.
In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in
the church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning's sermon
for the occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same
time that it should be suitable to the congregation, whether those
sailors were there or not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I
thought, for instance, of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful
and ready all about our island, all about the earth, was but a visible
type or symbol of two other oceans, one very still, the other very
awful and fierce; in fact, that three oceans surrounded us: one of the
known world; one of the unseen world, that is, of death; one of the
spirit--the devouring ocean of evil--and might I not have added yet
another, encompassing and silencing all the rest--that of truth! The
visible ocean seemed to make war upon the land, and the dwellers
thereon. Restrained by the will of God and by him made subject more and
more to the advancing knowledge of those who were created to rule over
it, it was yet like a half-tamed beast ever ready to break loose and
devour its masters. Of course this would have been but one aspect or
appearance of it--for it was in truth all service; but this was the
aspect I knew it must bear to those, seafaring themselves or not, to
whom I had to speak. Then I thought I might show, that its power, like
that of all things that man is ready to fear, had one barrier over
which no commotion, no might of driving wind, could carry it, beyond
which its loudest waves were dumb--the barrier of death. Hitherto and
no further could its power reach. It could kill the body. It could dash
in pieces the last little cock-boat to which the man clung, but thus it
swept the man beyond its own region into the second sea of stillness,
which we call death, out upon which the thoughts of those that are left
behind can follow him only in great longings, vague conjectures, and
mighty faith. Then I thought I could show them how, raving in fear, or
lying still in calm deceit, there lay about the life of man a far more
fearful ocean than that which threatened his body; for this would cast,
could it but get a hold of him, both body and soul into hell--the sea
of evil, of vice, of sin, of wrong-doing--they might call it by what
name they pleased. This made war against the very essence of life,
against God who is the truth, against love, against fairness, against
fatherhood, motherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood, manhood, womanhood,
against tenderness and grace and beauty, gathering into one pulp of
festering death all that is noble, lovely, worshipful in the human
nature made so divine that the one fearless man, the Lord Jesus Christ,
shared it with us. This, I thought I might make them understand, was
the only terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose awful shore
we must shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose bosom was
the bottom of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is
thought or spoken in the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand
that reaches down from the upper ocean of truth, the hand of the
Redeemer of men. I thought, I say, for a while, that I could make this,
not definite, but very real to them. But I did not feel quite confident
about it. Might they not in the symbolism forget the thing symbolised?
And would not the symbol itself be ready to fade quite from their
memory, or to return only in the vaguest shadow? And with the thought I
perceived a far more excellent way. For the power of the truth lies of
course in its revelation to the mind, and while for this there are a
thousand means, none are so mighty as its embodiment in human beings
and human life. There it is itself alive and active. And amongst these,
what embodiment comes near to that in him who was perfect man in virtue
of being at the root of the secret of humanity, in virtue of being the
eternal Son of God? We are his sons in time: he is his Son in eternity,
of whose sea time is but the broken sparkle. Therefore, I would talk to
them about--but I will treat my reader now as if he were not my reader,
but one of my congregation on that bright Sunday, my first in the
Seaboard Parish, with the sea outside the church, flashing in the
sunlight.
While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, I
could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level
with them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts
upon that which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the
pulpit; then I felt, as usual with me, that I was personally present
for personal influence with my people, and then I saw, to my great
pleasure, that one long bench nearly in the middle of the church was
full of such sunburnt men as could not be mistaken for any but
mariners, even if their torn and worn garments had not revealed that
they must be the very men about whom we had been so much interested.
Not only were they behaving with perfect decorum, but their rough faces
wore an aspect of solemnity which I do not suppose was by any means
their usual aspect.
I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing.
They should have it by and by.
"Once upon a time," I said, "a man went up a mountain, and stayed there
till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a
mountain as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes
haste to get down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun
was going down, and, as I say, continued there for a good long while
after it was dark. You will want to know why. I will tell you. He
wished to be alone. He hadn't a house of his own. He never had all the
time he lived. He hadn't even a room of his own into which he could go,
and bolt the door of it. True, he had kind friends, who gave him a bed:
but they were all poor people, and their houses were small, and very
likely they had large families, and he could not always find a quiet
place to go into. And I dare say, if he had had a room, he would have
been a little troubled with the children constantly coming to find him;
for however much he loved them--and no man was ever so fond of children
as he was--he needed to be left quiet sometimes. So, upon this
occasion, he went up the mountain just to be quiet. He had been all day
with a crowd of people, and he felt that it was time to be alone. For
he had been talking with men all day, which tires and sometimes
confuses a man's thoughts, and now he wanted to talk with God--for that
makes a man strong, and puts all the confusion in order again, and lets
a man know what he is about. So he went to the top of the hill. That
was his secret chamber. It had no door; but that did not matter--no one
could see him but God. There he stayed for hours--sometimes, I suppose,
kneeling in his prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with his own
thinking, on a stone; sometimes walking about, looking forward to what
would come next--not anxious about it, but contemplating it. For just
before he came up here, some of the people who had been with him wanted
to make him a king; and this would not do--this was not what God wanted
of him, and therefore he got rid of them, and came up here to talk to
God. It was so quiet up here! The earth had almost vanished. He could
see just the bare hilltop beneath him, a glimmer below, and the sky and
the stars over his head. The people had all gone away to their own
homes, and perhaps next day would hardly think about him at all, busy
catching fish, or digging their gardens, or making things for their
houses. But he knew that God would not forget him the next day any more
than this day, and that God had sent him not to be the king that these
people wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make his heart
strong, I say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk with
his Father. How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had
been down there a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then
as much as he was in the quiet now--the only difference being that he
could not then be alone with him. I need not tell you who this man
was--it was the king of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ,
the everlasting son of our Father in heaven.
"Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot
of it--that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not
wanting even his usual companions to be with him this evening--partly,
I presume, because they were of the same mind as those who desired to
take him by force and make him a king--he had sent them away in their
boat, to go across this water to the other side, where were their homes
and their families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the
mountain-top or on the water down below; yet I doubt if any other man
than he would have been keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat
down in the middle of the lake, much distressed by the west wind that
blew right in their teeth. But he loved every man in it so much, that I
think even as he was talking to his Father, his eyes would now and then
go looking for and finding it--watching it on its way across to the
other side. You must remember that it was a little boat; and there are
often tremendous storms upon these small lakes with great mountains
about them. For the wind will come all at once, rushing down through
the clefts in as sudden a squall as ever overtook a sailor at sea. And
then, you know, there is no sea-room. If the wind get the better of
them, they are on the shore in a few minutes, whichever way the wind
may blow. He saw them worn out at the oar, toiling in rowing, for the
wind was contrary unto them. So the time for loneliness and prayer was
over, and the time to go down out of his secret chamber and help his
brethren was come. He did not need to turn and say good-bye to his
Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top alone: his Father was down
there on the lake as well. He went straight down. Could not his Father,
if he too was down on the lake, help them without him? Yes. But he
wanted him to do it, that they might see that he did it. Otherwise they
would only have thought that the wind fell and the waves lay down,
without supposing for a moment that their Master or his Father had had
anything to do with it. They would have done just as people do
now-a-days: they think that the help comes of itself, instead of by the
will of him who determined from the first that men should be helped. So
the Master went down the hill. When he reached the border of the lake,
the wind being from the other side, he must have found the waves
breaking furiously upon the rocks. But that made no difference to him.
He looked out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the rushing wind and
the noise of the water, out over the waves under the clear, starry sky,
saw where the tiny boat was tossed about like a nutshell, and set out."
The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward
on their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they
are of tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson's
yarn a good one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more
ignorant than the others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour.
It was not returned, and he fell again into a listening attitude. He
had no idea of what was coming. He probably thought parson had
forgotten to say how Jesus had come by a boat.
"The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave
him behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had
been with them--not that they thought he could do anything with a
storm, only that somehow they would have been less afraid with his face
to look at. They had seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had
seen him turn water into wine--some of them; they had seen him feed
five thousand people the day before with five loaves and two small
fishes; but had one of their number suggested that if he had been with
them, they would have been safe from the storm, they would not have
talked any nonsense about the laws of nature, not having learned that
kind of nonsense, but they would have said that was quite a different
thing--altogether too much to expect or believe: _nobody_ could make
the wind mind what it was about, or keep the water from drowning you if
you fell into it and couldn't swim; or such-like.
"At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler
strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying
their oars in it up to the handles--as they rose on the crest of a huge
wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared,
leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray
which the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before it
like dust, they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat,
something standing up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move
towards them. It was a shape like a man. They all cried out with fear,
as was natural, for they thought it must be a ghost."
How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the
story! I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting
up to speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on.
"But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice
they knew so well. It said, 'Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.'
I should think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some
moments where they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to
recover himself apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt
strong and full of courage. 'Lord, if it be thou,' he said, 'bid me
come unto thee on the water.' Jesus just said, 'Come;' and Peter
unshipped his oar, and scrambled over the gunwale on to the sea. But
when he let go his hold of the boat, and began to look about him, and
saw how the wind was tearing the water, and how it tossed and raved
between him and Jesus, he began to be afraid. And as soon as he began
to be afraid he began to sink; but he had, notwithstanding his fear,
just sense enough to do the one sensible thing; he cried out, 'Lord,
save me.' And Jesus put out his hand, and took hold of him, and lifted
him up out of the water, and said to him, 'O thou of little faith,
wherefore didst thou doubt? And then they got into the boat, and the
wind fell all at once, and altogether.
"Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn't
that he hadn't courage, but that he hadn't enough of it. And why was it
that he hadn't enough of it? Because he hadn't faith enough. Peter was
always very easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn't at all
likely that a man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter
found himself standing on the water: you would have thought that when
once he found himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of
the wind and the waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked
so ugly that the fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his
courage went. You would have thought that the greatest trial of his
courage was over when he got out of the boat, and that there was
comparatively little more ahead of him. Yet the sight of the waves and
the blast of the boisterous wind were too much for him. I will tell you
how I fancy it was; and I think there are several instances of the same
kind of thing in Peter's life. When he got out of the boat, and found
himself standing on the water, he began to think much of himself for
being able to do so, and fancy himself better and greater than his
companions, and an especial favourite of God above them. Now, there is
nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two are directly
against each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and began to
think about himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose his
faith, and then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink--and that
brought him to his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his
Master, and then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the
Lord gently rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking,
'Wherefore didst thou doubt?' I wonder if Peter was able to read his
own heart sufficiently well to answer that _wherefore_. I do not think
it likely at this period of his history. But God has immeasurable
patience, and before he had done teaching Peter, even in this life, he
had made him know quite well that pride and conceit were at the root of
all his failures. Jesus did not point it out to him now. Faith was the
only thing that would reveal that to him, as well as cure him of it;
and was, therefore, the only thing he required of him in his rebuke. I
suspect Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager hands of his
companions already in a humbler state of mind than when he left it; but
before his pride would be quite overcome, it would need that same voice
of loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock to
bring to his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even
the voice of one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but
was yet a readier disciple than he--the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke
him because he dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the
last even he gained the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes,
nailed to the cross like his Master, rather than deny his name. This
should teach us to distrust ourselves, and yet have great hope for
ourselves, and endless patience with other people. But to return to the
story and what the story itself teaches us.
"If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the
mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been
frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they
were only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own
question"--I went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with
an audible answer hovering on their lips--"I don't know that, as they
then were, it would have made so much difference to them; for none of
them had risen much above the look of the things nearest them yet. But
supposing you, who know something about him, were alone on the sea, and
expecting your boat to be swamped every moment--if you found out all at
once, that he was looking down at you from some lofty hilltop, and
seeing all round about you in time and space too, would you be afraid?
He might mean you to go to the bottom, you know. Would you mind going
to the bottom with him looking at you? I do not think I should mind it
myself. But I must take care lest I be boastful like Peter.
"Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the
Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not
believe that he is what he says he is--the Saviour of men. We do not
believe what he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and
therefore continue slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you
do believe in him. I am not going to say that you do not believe in
him; but I hope I am going to make you say to yourselves that you too
deserve to have those words of the Saviour spoken to you that were
spoken to Peter, 'O ye of little faith!' Floating on the sea of your
troubles, all kinds of fears and anxieties assailing you, is He not on
the mountain-top? Sees he not the little boat of your fortunes tossed
with the waves and the contrary wind? Assuredly he will come to you
walking on the waters. It may not be in the way you wish, but if not,
you will say at last, 'This is better.' It may be that he will come in
a form that will make you cry out for fear in the weakness of your
faith, as the disciples cried out--not believing any more than they
did, that it can be he. But will not each of you arouse his courage
that to you also he may say, as to the woman with the sick daughter
whose confidence he so sorely tried, 'Great is thy faith'? Will you not
rouse yourself, I say, that you may do him justice, and cast off the
slavery of your own dread? O ye of little faith, wherefore will ye
doubt? Do not think that the Lord sees and will not come. Down the
mountain assuredly he will come, and you are now as safe in your
troubles as the disciples were in theirs with Jesus looking on. They
did not know it, but it was so: the Lord was watching them. And when
you look back upon your past lives, cannot you see some instances of
the same kind--when you felt and acted as if the Lord had forgotten
you, and found afterwards that he had been watching you all the time?
"But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so
little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would
soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and
envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah!
trust him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean
and beautiful in heart.
"O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is
watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt,
and wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this
globe, though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake
on which you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you,
and watch over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful
to him? Will you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil
things, lie, and delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on
you, watching your ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the
waves to help you? It is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it
would be far finer to fear nothing _because_ he is above all, and over
all, and in you all. For his sake and for his love, give up everything
bad, and take him for your captain. He will be both captain and pilot
to you, and steer you safe into the port of glory. Now to God the
Father," &c.
This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I
followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon.
END OF VOL. I.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Volume 1, by George MacDonald