Plain Sermons, preached at Archbishop Tenison's Chapel, Regent Street. Second Series

by James Galloway Cowan

SERMON XI.
CHRIST STILLING THE STORM.

St. Matthew, viii., 26.

And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.

It was after a day of laborious teaching, that our Lord to escape for a time from the crowds that thronged Him, to obtain rest and quiet, perhaps to exercise His ministry in other places, commanded the disciples to steer the ship, in which He had been teaching, across the sea of Galilee, and to convey Him to the other side. Immediately, it would appear, that they set out, He laid Himself down and fell asleep. Partaking of human nature in its infirmity, though not in its sin, He was worn out with labour, and absolutely required, yea, hastened to rest. He sunk into a deep sleep, then, as soon as He assumed the posture of repose. But anon, a storm arose. One of those squalls (which so often come down upon lakes surrounded by mountains) suddenly filled the air with boisterous wind, and so upraised and agitated the waves, that they dashed over the ship, and threatened it with destruction. The disciples, many of whom were fishermen, and others accustomed to occupy their business upon or beside the water, must have been too familiar with storms to be easily frightened. The darkening clouds, the howling wind, the troubled water, would, of course, arouse them to energy, warning them that they were in danger, and requiring them to watch and labour to save themselves; and so we can well imagine them running hither and thither, with anxious looks, loosing or furling the sails, as might be necessary; avoiding quicksands, and rocks, and shallow places; lightening the ship of dangerous burthens; directing their course by the safest way, to the haven where they would be. But either they must have been sorry sailors, with coward hearts, which we are not willing to believe, or their courage must have been overcome by very unusual and imminent danger, ere they would have rushed to their Master, and cried to Him, in terror, “Lord, save us, we perish!” or, in rash reproach, “Carest thou not, that we perish?” Yes! I say, there must have been unusual and imminent danger, and even something more—some supernatural portent—thus to strike with terror, thus to fill with despair.

However this may be, they cried unto the Lord, and the Lord heard them. He had slept calmly through the roar of the wind—yea, even while the waves washed over Him; but the cry of distress entered quickly into His ear, and He awoke to answer it. “Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?” were His awakening words. This is not a rebuke for coming to Him; they had done right therein. He would presently prove it by the miracle He would work for them. Neither is it an assertion that there was no real danger, that they had been too easily alarmed: for an inspired Evangelist, St. Luke, writing long afterwards, in the light of what Christ now said and did, expressly states that the vessel was filled with water, and that they were in danger. No; it is an acknowledgment of the danger, but it is also a pledge that it should be averted, and it is a tender reproach for not being confident of deliverance. “Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?” Am not I with you? Do not I know your wants? Have I not power and will to relieve them? Where is your faith, in the prophecies of what I have yet to do, that you suppose I am now to perish? Where is the confidence which becomes my followers?—which others, with less knowledge and encouragement, less ground of hope, have so fully shown. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Yea, though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him! Thus He reproves, and calms, and assures them in their trouble, and then He proceeds to deliver them out of it. “He arose”—we read—“and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm.” It was a wondrous manifestation of His Majesty. It was a gracious condescension to infirmity. It was a proof, too palpable to be resisted, too marvellous to be forgotten, that He is able to keep, and that He will keep, in safety and in peace, those whose minds are staid on Him, who commit themselves to His keeping. Well may the disciples, in the awful stillness of that calm, have been filled as much with reverential fear as with admiration. “They feared exceedingly, and said one to another, What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?” They had witnessed several of His epiphanies: they had tasted of the water made wine; they had seen the leper cleansed; and had, at least, heard on reliable testimony, that the centurion’s servant was restored—yea, in the early evening of this very day, just before they left the shore, Jesus had been casting out evil spirits, with His word, and had healed all the sick that were brought to Him: but in their eyes (whether they were right or wrong concerns us not now) this was a greater miracle, greater in extent, greater in power, greater in the suddenness, the certainty (felt by themselves, remember, as no other had been) and the peace and joy of its effect. Much must it have informed their worship, much must it have increased their faith. Power did it give them to proclaim hereafter that they knew in whom they had believed, patience to endure for His sake, in His strength; peace in persecution, comfort in sorrow, hope amidst otherwise confounding terrors and dismay, that they had actually experienced Christ’s salvation from destruction; that the experience had been vouchsafed them as a pledge of His constant care; that they had been told, on its account, to trust—never henceforth to be fearful, and of little faith!

Of great importance, then, was that miracle of the Stilling of the Storm, if it meant no more, and accomplished no more than this: if it only showed, that on a large, as on a small scale, over elements, as well as over diseases, on the sea no less than on the land, Jesus was “mighty to save”; if it only furnished the eye-witnesses of His ministry with a great instance of His gracious power; if it only prepared them for their life of storms and difficulties, and supported them in their dangers and distresses, and kept them faithful and joyful.

But, surely, it has more meaning, and more worth, than this.

First, it reveals to us, if I mistake not, a contention between spiritual powers (the Son of God on the one side, the Devil on the other), followed by a victory of the good, and a conspicuous defeat of the evil. That was no accidental raging of wind and waves, that was no operation of the God of providence using the elements to accomplish good purposes which was rebuked by the voice of the Son of God. Rebuke would be meaningless addressed to mere wind and wave: it would be blasphemous addressed to God. It is only when speaking to the Devil, to fevers and distempers, the effects of demoniacal possession, to Peter or others, prompted by Satan, speaking his words, doing his work, that Christ uses rebuke. Here then, surely, Satan was at work, and here he was confounded! The enemy of souls had never ceased to watch and seek to destroy the Saviour. He had stirred up Herod against Him in His infancy. He had personally assailed Him in the wilderness. He was now using the elements, over which much power is often allowed him, as we see in Job’s case, as his agents of evil. But with all his wisdom and perception, he knew not what was in Jesus. He thought once that he could as easily have made Him sceptical as he did Eve, “hath God said,” “If Thou be the Son of Man.” He thought now that while the Son of Man slept he was unconscious and powerless. And so in his folly he sought to wreck the vessel, and overwhelm Him whom it carried in the depths of the sea. Attempting this, he did but give occasion for an additional manifestation of Christ’s mission and power to destroy him and his works. On the shore, before He started, Christ had cast out devils. On the shore for which He was making He would again cast them out. On the sea He now meets them, and confounds them. O what a mighty, what a galling conquest! Satan had let loose all the powers of the winds, he had lashed the waves into utmost fury, the disciples were dismayed, the Saviour was asleep, the ship was sinking. “Only a few moments,” doubtless, he exultingly thought, “and there shall be a second destruction of man, the kingdom shall surely become mine, for there will be none to dispute it”—when, lo! the Lord arose, and, with a word, made him undo the work he had done. “Peace be still;” and the wind ceased, and there was a great calm! O signal defeat! O earnest of the promise that the head of the serpent shall be bruised, that Satan himself shall be bound and trodden under foot, and cast into the lake of fire, and shall deceive and vex no more. Surely, this is one of the chief scenes, one of the most mysterious and important events, one of the most glorious manifestations of Christ’s life on earth.

But this is not all its significance. The miracles of our Lord were acted parables—types of spiritual things—rather outward signs, not themselves to be given up, but thereafter to be accompanied by inward grace.

The ship on the sea of Galilee represents the Christian Church, or the individual member of it. The sea is the world; the storm, with its adverse wind and difficult waves, figures the trials, the buffetings, the persecutions, the fears of this mortal life; the disciples are the types of weak yet willing human nature—both our warnings and our examples; and Christ is Himself, yet, so to speak, but a figure of the true, dwelling in His Church in each faithful member, often apparently unheeding, unconscious, yet always our sure defence and deliverer, prompt to hear when called upon, able to comfort, mighty to save.

That entry into the ship, and sailing forth into the sea, represents our first journey, and each renewed journey to Christ, in Baptism, in Confirmation, in Holy Communion, in every fresh repentance, every vow, every act of worship. Forth we go with Him. All is calm and hopeful. We seem to have to journey over quiet waters. The shore of Heaven is straight before us, and we are making for it. But, as soon as we set out, our envious, deadly enemy, hating our Lord, and hating us, plots our destruction, and assays its accomplishment. Soon trouble takes the place of peace, winds of adversity toss and try us, hope begins to pale, terror to dismay, the waters go even over our soul, and He who should calm us, and sustain and cheer us, seems to have fallen asleep, to help us not, to take no notice of us. It is the hour of God’s trial, of the Devil’s temptation! What shall we do? If we are wise sailors, like as I have supposed the disciples to have done, we shall meet the occasion with well-directed energy; we shall keep the vessel away from the quicksands of pleasure, the shallows of pride, the rocks of offence, and the whirlpools of sin. We shall cast out the weight that drags us down, sloth, indifference, besetting sin. We shall bear up against the boisterous winds of adversity. We shall resolutely and perseveringly pursue the straight course through the waters, making for, looking for the shore. Unless we do all this, we have no right to hope. But we must take care, lest in, ay, even by doing it, we lose our hope. Satan destroys many because they make no effort to save themselves; but he destroys quite as many because they rely on their own efforts. It is a fact that we can do nothing by ourselves; that human wisdom, self-reliant, is sure to be confounded, and human effort, independent, to be paralysed. But even if for the time we see what is right, and are successful in doing it, he will enshroud us in such horrible darkness, he will fill our ears with such dismal sounds, he will so toss and bewilder and overwhelm us, that presently weariness, perplexity, and despair will cause us to give up, to consent to our own destruction. The disciples in that storm-tossed ship seem to have been bringing themselves well nigh into this ruin, first to have relied on themselves, and then to have despaired of themselves, all the while forgetting Who was with them, Who should have been their guide, Who was their sure protector, when, all at once, before it was too late, they remembered and aroused Him, and called Him to their aid. It was their bliss to find that “the saint’s extremity is God’s opportunity;” that it is never too late, before destruction, to call upon Him and be saved; but they were not allowed to enjoy this bliss unmixed with reproach for self-confidence and for want of confidence in Him. In all the storms and dangers which beset us on the sea of life, let us take example from the disciples to call upon Him who can save us, and let us also take warning from them, not to forget His company, or to suppose that He forgets us.