|
|
|
Prev
| Next
| Contents
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.
Prev
| Next
| Contents
|
|
|