THE PEACE-BRINGER IN THE NATURAL WORLD

’And when He was entered into a ship, His disciples followed Him. 24.  And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves; but He was asleep. 25.  And His disciples came to Him, and awoke Him, saying, Lord, save us:  we perish. 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. 27.  But the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man la this, that even the winds and the sea obey him!’—­MATT. viii. 23-27.

The second group of miracles in these chapters shows us Christ as the Prince of Peace, and that in three regions—­the material, the superhuman, and the moral.  He stills the tempest, casts out demons, and forgives sins, thus quieting nature, spirit, and conscience.

Mountain-girdled lakes are exposed to sudden storms from the wind sweeping down the glens.  Such a one comes roaring down as the little boat, probably belonging to James and John, is labouring across the six or seven miles to the eastern side.  Matthew describes the boat as it would appear from shore, as being ‘covered’ and lost to sight by the breaking waves.  Mark, who is Peter’s mouthpiece, describes the desperate plight as one on board knew it, and says the boat was ‘filling.’  It must have been a serious gale which frightened a crew who had spent all their lives on the lake.

Note Christ’s sleep in the storm.  His calm slumber is contrasted with the hurly-burly of the tempest and the alarm of the crew.  It was the sleep of physical exhaustion after a hard day’s work.  He was too tired to keep awake, or to be disturbed by the tumult.  His fatigue is a sign of His true manhood, of His toil up to the very edge of His strength; a characteristic of His life of service, which we do not make as prominent in our thoughts as we should.  It is also a sign of His calm conscience and pure heart.  Jonah slept through the storm because his conscience was stupefied; but Christ, as a tired child laying its head on its mother’s lap.

That sleep may have a symbolical meaning for us.  Though Christ is present, the storm comes, and He sleeps through it.  Lazarus dies, and He makes no sign of sympathy.  Peter lies in prison, and not till the hammers of the carpenters putting up the gibbet for to-morrow are heard, does deliverance come.  He delays His help, that He may try our faith and quicken our prayers.  The boat may be covered with the waves, and He sleeps on, but He will wake before it sinks.  He sleeps, but He never over-sleeps, and there are no too-lates with Him.

Note next the awaking cry of fear.  The broken abruptness of their appeal reveals the urgency of the case in the experienced eyes of these fishermen.  Their summons is a curious mixture of fear and faith.  ’Save us’ is the language of faith; ‘we perish’ is that of fear.  That strange blending of opposites is often repeated by us.  The office of faith is to suppress fear.  But the origin of faith is often in fear, and we are driven to trust just because we are so much afraid.  A faith which does not wholly suppress fear may still be most real; and the highest faith has ever the consciousness that unless Christ help, and that speedily, we perish.