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.