It is I, or The Voice of Jesus
in the Storm, by Newman Hall. Mark 6, 45-50 Immediately Jesus
made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to
Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After leaving them,
he went up on a mountainside to pray. When evening came, the
boat was in the middle of the lake, and he was alone on land. He saw the disciples straining
at the oars because the wind was against them. About the fourth
watch of the night, He went out to them, walking on the lake. He was about to pass by them,
but when they saw him walking on the lake, they thought he
was a ghost. They cried out, because they
all saw him and were terrified. Immediately he spoke to them
and said, take courage, it is I, don't be afraid. Is it stormy
weather with you? Do cares, disappointments, bereavements,
as a heavy cloud, deluge you with sorrow? Do spiritual troubles
assail you as a hurricane, and drive here and there your harassed
soul? Do the winds and the waves beat
upon your frail bark, so that it seems about to sink? O afflicted
one, tossed with tempest and not comforted, listen to the
voice of Jesus, who comes to you in the storm, walking upon
the waters, and says, It is I, do not be afraid. The design
of Christianity is to make us joyful. This world is indeed
a valley of tears, but the man of sorrows has visited it that
we may rejoice. We are surrounded by causes of
alarm, but the Gospel bids us, fear not. And that which alone
can enable us to be joyful amid sorrows and of good courage amid
perils, is the presence of our God and Savior. To believe in
Him as always near, always kind, always mighty to save, is the
true and sole antidote to fear and grief. It is only in proportion
as we recognize his voice as that of a friend saying, it is
I that we can comply with his exhortation. Be of good cheer. Do not be afraid." The disciples
were once in a storm on the Sea of Galilee. Their master had
been miraculously feeding 5,000 people with five loaves and two
fish. The people were so astonished
at his power that they resolved to make him their king. But as
he had come not to reign but to suffer, he urged them to return
quietly to their homes, and he himself retired to a mountain
to pray. Meanwhile, Jesus constrained
his disciples to get into a ship and to go before him to the other
side of the lake. It is most likely that they did
not understand the reason of this request. It probably seemed
strange to them. Why should he be left to disperse
the multitude alone? Why should they be deprived of
his company? If he wished retirement, why
could they not wait on the shore until he came from the mountain?
How could he follow them if they went away with the ship? But
they were commanded, and this was sufficient. Even so, Christians
still have to do and to suffer many things, the reason of which
is hidden from them. But an obedient disciple will
not say, Why has this been appointed me to do? Why has that been given
me to suffer? For until I comprehend the reason,
I will not obey the command. Oh no, his language will rather
be, Lord, what will you have me to do? If the head of a family
The commander of a ship, the general of an army, often gives
orders which, though not explained, are promptly obeyed. Shall we
presume to sit questioning the will of Jesus instead of making
haste and delaying not to keep his commandments? May we not
expect to hear him reprovingly say to us, What is that to you? Follow me. But the Christian's
duty not only sometimes baffles his reason, but also opposes
his preferences. How much more willingly would
the disciples have remained in the company of their beloved
master? How much they perhaps fancied
they were losing. While deprived of his company,
they were in a ship alone. so in obedience to duty, the
Christian may still seem to be a loser, not only in temporal,
but even in spiritual respects. His opportunities of Christian
advancement may appear to be curtailed by a course which,
otherwise, he would not hesitate to pronounce his duty to his
Savior. It is his duty still. Apparent
consequences do not diminish the obligation of an obvious
command, and he who most scrupulously adheres to the path of obedience
will most successfully travel in the path of improvement too.
Duty is identical with privilege. However delightful and profitable
the company of Jesus must have been, The disciples gained far
more by being obediently absent than rebelliously near. Obedience
is the best kind of nearness. The evening on which the disciples
embarked was calm and fair. The day had not been stormy,
else the five thousand could not so comfortably have sat upon
the grass at that miraculous feast. It was after the disciples
had left the shore that the sea arose by reason of a great wind
that blew. They, therefore, must have anticipated
a safe and pleasant voyage. Thus how often do storms visit
believers when only calm weather is expected? The brightest beginnings
are not sure harbingers of continued prosperity. The morning sun may
be undimmed, but black thunderclouds may conceal his rays at noon. The finest day may be followed
by the stormiest night, and the ocean, now without a ripple,
may before long writhe beneath the lashings of the tempest.
Our dearest treasures may suddenly be taken from us, and our fairest
hopes are withered in the bud. Sunshine and calm are treacherous. They cannot always last. Don't
sailors expect to encounter gales and tempests, and therefore provide
themselves with anchors and all other things that may be of use
in such emergencies? How foolish are they who voyage
on the perilous ocean of life without the Christian's hope
as an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast. We should be prepared
for storms that we may not be overwhelmed with surprise and
terror when they come. But if Jesus is with us, the
most horrific tempest cannot harm us. The profoundest calm
is infinitely perilous without him. Behold the frightened disciples
in their storm-driven boat. They have to struggle with difficulties. The favorable breeze with which
they weighed anchor has changed to an opposing gale. They have
taken down their sail as no longer of any use, and they are now
tugging at the oars. They toiled in rowing, for the
wind was contrary to them. Moreover, the night was now dark. They were in danger too, for
their little vessel was in the midst of the sea, tossed with
waves. Worse than all, they were alone,
for Jesus had not come to them. This is a fit representation
of the circumstances by which believers are still often tried. What contrary winds and tides
have they to contend with? What darkness surrounds them?
What perils threaten them? And sometimes even Jesus seems
withdrawn. The stormy gales of trouble blow
from various quarters. Bitter disappointments, grievous
losses, perplexing cares, anxious apprehensions, pinching poverty,
the injuries of foes, and, far worse, the slights of friends,
painful diseases, suspension of beloved activities, prostrated
strength, debilitated faculties, weary wakefulness, and gnawing
pain. Heartbreaking bereavements, tearing
from us those with whom our very life was bound together, leaving
a blank which nothing earthly can fill. A wounded spirit, bending
beneath the burden of anguish or severe conflicts with the
great adversary of souls, harassing temptations, distorted views
of truth, awful terrors of mind, gloomy doubts, and dark despondency. Oh, what black clouds do such
stormy winds as these often cause to gather round the believer,
so that scarcely a ray of light can struggle through to cheer
him as he is tossed up and down amid the billows? Was this to
be expected? Am I not a disciple under the
special protection of Jesus? Has He not promised to defend
me from all harm? Has He not told me that His angels
have charge over me, and that no evil thing shall happen to
me? If He were my protector, my Savior,
my friend, could such troubles as these assail me? These thoughts
may have assailed the disciples, Though Jesus was then bodily
on the earth, yet they did not escape the storm. But Jesus was
not unfaithful or forgetful. Don't then be surprised if sometimes
you are also in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves. Who expects the ocean to be always
calm? Discipleship is distinguished
rather by exposure to troubles than exemption from them. We
must, through much tribulation, enter into the kingdom. Christ
has promised to deliver us out of the storm, not to keep us
from encountering it. There has no temptation taken
you, but such as is common to men. But God is faithful, who
not will preserve you from trial, but will not allow you to be
tempted above what you are able, but will with the temptation
also make a way of escape. not to avoid it, but to bear
it. The same afflictions have been
accomplished in the Brotherhood of Faith in all ages. The saints
in glory all toiled in rowing amid similar billows. Though
never shipwrecked, they were all tempest-tossed. The elder
brother himself did not escape. He was made like to his brethren,
in all points tempted as we are. Beloved, think it not strange
concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some
strange thing happened to you. These storms may often rise against
us, even when acting in direct obedience to the will of Christ. The disciples had not set sail
without His express command, yet the tempest assailed them. Jesus knew that the wind would
arise. He himself permitted it to blow. Nevertheless, he told the disciples
to go over to the other side. We should learn never to interpret
duty by success. The opposition, which assails
us in the course of obedience, is no evidence that we are mistaken. He who gives laws to his servants
is the controller of all events. It may be his will that in the
very act of obedience we should encounter storms. He foreknew
every trial we should meet with when he laid down the route which
we should pursue. We must not dare to turn back. The disciples, when the wind
became contrary, might have wished to return to shore, especially
as Jesus was there. But they had been commanded to
go to the other side, and so they continued rowing, even though
they made little or no progress. They were not responsible for
the contrary wind that stopped them, but they were responsible
for striving to obey the will of their master. Even so, no
difficulty must daunt us in the way of obedience. Let the prow
of our vessel be ever turned toward the point of duty, however
terrible the gale, however mighty the waves which beat against
it. Though they may seem to force us back, yet if we persevere
in obediently struggling against them, we are really making rapid
progress. Christ secures deliverance and
success to every faithful disciple. Better, infinitely better, to
suffer the loss of all things in obeying Jesus than to purchase
the universe by retreating from the storm. Better to perish in
the tempest than to seek safety in a disobedient flight, for
whoever will save his life shall lose it. but whoever will lose
his life for my sake shall find it. But while the disciples are
battling with the winds and the waves, where is Jesus? In the mountain, alone with his
Father, spending the night in prayer. Are his afflicted followers
forgotten? When were they ever absent from
his considerate thoughts, his loving heart? Doubtless he was
interceding for them, and he intercedes for us, though afflicted
and tempest-tossed. Most consoling truth, he ever
lives to make intercession for us. By night and by day, in the
tempest and the calm, his all-prevalent prayer arises, Father, Keep them
from the evil one. You are never forgotten by him. The hands of Moses grew weary
as he was praying for the Israelites, and when they drooped, Amalek
prevailed. But a mightier than Moses is
here, who never is weary, and whom the Father always hears.
He bears your name upon His heart. You are engraved on the palms
of His hands. In every storm, He is on the
mount, and His intercession renders your deliverance certain. Do
not think that because the wind is boisterous and the storm continues
long, He intercedes in vain. You're not sinking proves that
his advocacy prevails. Expect a calm and you may be
disappointed but charge not his mediation with inefficacy. Expect supporting grace and final
deliverance and your hope shall never make you ashamed. He prays
not that our day may never be stormy But, in answer to His
intercession, we may always be confident that, as our day, so
shall our strength be. Jesus not only prayed for His
disciples, but also watched them in the tempest. They could not
see Him. They might think themselves beyond
His sight, for they had rode a distance of some three miles.
And, as we are told, the night was dark. Their small vessel
could not be seen from the shore. Yet the eye of Jesus was on it. He saw every wave that broke
over it. He beheld the poor disciples
in dismay, laboring unavailingly at the oars. He understood all
that was in their hearts. He saw them toiling in their
rowing. And does he not see you also
when you are storm-driven? Do not think your case is unknown
to him. Every secret anxiety, every heart-buried
grief, is watched from his throne on high. He knows all your difficulties,
sorrows, and temptations. You shall not perish by any oversight
of his. When he sees that the fitting
season has arrived, he will appear for your deliverance. This manifest
deliverance may be delayed. It was not until the fourth watch
in the night that the disciples beheld their Savior. How long
those hours appeared! Until three o'clock in the morning
they toiled in rowing against the furious winds and waves. Perhaps they unbelievingly thought
they were quite forgotten by their master and abandoned to
the raging storm. And still it often happens to
afflicted believers that Jesus seems to delay his promised help. It is a delay in appearance only. Was he not assisting his disciples
most effectually while watching them from the shore and interceding
on their behalf? Were they not preserved from
destruction, though as yet they had not seen their Deliverer?
Were they not saved in the storm, though not from it? Thus Jesus
is ever present to protect us, even though we may not see Him.
Troubles may appear overwhelmingly great, and spiritual darkness
benight our souls, without one ray of comfort to dart across
the gloom. And this may continue days, months,
years. Jesus may delay to reveal himself,
but not to support and help his disciples. And for that very
delay, he has the kindest, wisest reasons. Oh, to say from the
heart, my times are in your hand, O Lord. To believe them, to be
in the best hand. To wish them in no other. and therefore not to murmur or
be dismayed, even though until the fourth watch in the night
we are allowed to continue toiling in our rowing. the wind being
contrary. His time is the best time. The hour of deliverance will
certainly arrive, for the vision is yet for an appointed time,
but at the end it shall speak and not lie. Though it tarries,
wait for it, because it will surely come. It will not tarry. But when at length Jesus did
appear to His storm-tossed disciples, the manner of His coming was
so unexpected and strange that, instead of joy, their first emotion
was terror. He approached them, walking on
the waves. Who would have expected Him that
way? It was a phenomenon never witnessed
before. Notwithstanding former displays
of His power, the disciples doubtless regarded the intervening sea
an impassable barrier between them and their Divine Master.
This was the last manner in which they would expect to behold Him.
And when he did come, making the very waters which they thought
must keep him absent, the path by which he approached, their
terror was such that they did not recognize their deliverer,
but imagined that they saw a ghost. Ah, how often do we limit the
Holy One of Israel! We too often think of Him as
like ourselves in His resources. We regard as an impossibility
that which presents to Him no difficulty. We despair of help
from the very quarters where perhaps He is at that moment
advancing to our deliverance. We presume to prescribe to the
Almighty. Instead of praying for his aid
and leaving to his loving wisdom the manner of it, we too often
determine in our own minds the method by which the hope for
assistance will be given. Disappointed in our expectation,
we perhaps murmur that our prayers have been disregarded, though
at that very time we are receiving in some other way the aid we
sought. Is not strength to bear a burden
as much an answer to prayer as its removal? Is not grace to
persevere in supplication amid surrounding gloom as much a proof
of our Savior's faithfulness as if sunshine dispersed the
darkness? May not a still deeper sense
of our vileness and helplessness be an answer to prayer for spiritual
growth? Is this not more valuable than
seasons of joy and peace that we coveted? Though the enemy
may not have left us, yet it is no small mercy to be enabled
to maintain the conflict, and having done all, to stand. And though the storm may continue
to rage, and the calm is long delayed, yet is it not a proof
that Jesus is with us, so long as the waves are not allowed
to overwhelm us. like the disciples who cried
out for fear, saying, It is a spirit! We often mistake the form and
presence of our Lord. We look with apprehension on
what should disperse our fear. Our best blessings and the answers
to our most earnest prayers cause us alarm and grief. What short-sighted,
blind and ignorant creatures we are! How we mistake the intentions
of our dearest friend! How often we tremble when we
should be of good courage! How often we mourn and complain
when we should abound in thanksgiving! O help us, gracious Saviour,
to leave with you the manner of your appearing! However strange,
however terrible the outward shape, may we recognize the presence
of our ever-faithful friend. Nothing is impossible with Him. He often walks still upon the
waters. What we most dread as distressing
and ruinous, He may select as the best method of effecting
our deliverance. Though the tempest is high and
though the night is dark, yet let us adoringly recognize and
hail the Lord walking to us on the boisterous waves. The terror
of the disciples was speedily allayed by the encouraging voice
of Jesus. It is I. Do not be afraid. It is no ghost, no avenging angel,
none of the powers of darkness. It is I, your Master, your Protector,
your Friend. Fear not. What consolation this
must have afforded to that affrighted crew! There is nothing that can
so allay the grief of afflicted believers as in hearing Jesus
say, It is I, In every calamity, in every grief, he is present. We are never alone. Our best
friend is always near. And he is not only with us in
the storm, but he sends and controls the storm. We are too apt to
attribute our troubles to secondary causes alone, losing sight of
Him without whom not even a sparrow falls to the ground. Men say,
this was an accident, or that was owing to the operation of
general laws. Or, an enemy has done this. Jesus says, it is I. Whatever may be the truth, respecting
human agency and natural laws, there is a supreme controller,
without whose permission and direction, no event transpires. Though man's free agency is not
invaded, nor the ordinary course of nature impeded, most absolutely
true is the Savior's own declaration. My Father works here, and I work. In every event, important or
trivial in the estimation of man, he speaks and says, It is
I. In poverty? It is I. In sickness? It is I. In anxiety? It is I. In bereavement? It is I. Whatever be the nature of the
storm, from whatever quarter the hurricane may blow, still,
Jesus says, it is I. Not merely when the waters are
smooth, reflecting every shadow on their mirrored surface, while
an unclouded sun diffuses light and gladness all around. But
when the dark clouds gather, and the night is black, and the
tempest howls, and the thunder rattles, and the waters rage,
and the hideous gulfs yawn as if to swallow up the despairing
disciples, when the tempests shriek through all of a cleaving
sky, and the mad billows writhe in their huge agony, Even then,
amid the gloom, may Jesus be seen by the eye of faith, walking
in majesty upon the waves, and, amid the elemental din, His still
small voice of mingled dignity and love may be heard saying,
It is I, do not be afraid. O to recognize Christ more vividly
in all our troubles, to lose sight of human agency in the
absorbing contemplation of Jesus. Regrets and murmurs will never
end if we look only or chiefly at secondary causes If I had
not done this, if I had been more prudent in that, if such
a one had not been so unfaithful and unkind, oh, how endless may
such false reasoning become! What discontent they will occasion! How difficult will it be to feel
resigned when we blame others or ourselves as the sole causes
of our troubles! Let me look away from inferior
agencies. Jesus sends the storm. Did he
ordain this affliction, and shall I not be submissive to his authority? If he sent this poverty, ought
I not to welcome it? If he ordered this disappointment,
should I regret it? If he has commissioned this sickness,
shall I not patiently endure it? If he has allowed enmity
to assail me, shall not hatred to my enemy be forgotten in submission
to my friend? If he has bereaved me, and earth
appears a blank in the absence of those so dear, though I cannot
but mourn, shall I murmur? If he mixes the embittered cup,
shall I not drink it? May I not be sure that it is
wisely and kindly mingled, and, though it may be bitter, that
life and health must result from the drink? Not beholding God
in the storm, or entertaining false conceptions of Him, is
a prolific source of fear. Some other form is seen in the
tempest, which causes alarm. Men are afraid of fate or chance,
and behold phantoms of evil all around. An assassin lies in ambush
at every turn. Every cloud that gathers conceals
an enemy, and the muttering of the tempest is the voice of a
foe. Thus, superstition is full of
fears, in proportion as it fails to recognize the one sole object
of Christian reverence. How great a truth is there in
the saying of Solomon, in the fear of the Lord is strong confidence,
and his children shall have a place of refuge. Fear and courage are
allied. If we rightly fear the true God,
we need fear none besides. What can harm us if He is our
protector? Whose enmity need we dread if
He is our friend? Why should the storm distress
or frighten us if Jesus is there to shield us from injury, and
even to make the fury of the winds and the waves conducive
to our good? We cannot escape from the storms
of life. But those storms lose their power,
not only to injure, but also to alarm. When we hear the voice
of Jesus saying, it is I, do not be afraid. As the only reason
why the disciples should not fear, Jesus simply said, it is
I. As if this was quite sufficient
to banish alarm. It was unnecessary to assure
them of their safety or what he would do to affect it. It
was enough to let them know that it was he. His presence was a
sufficient guarantee for deliverance. And does not this assurance,
it is I, involve everything needed to calm the fears and soothe
the sorrows of afflicted believers still? It was a voice of power. He spoke of whom it is recorded
that all things were made by him, who said, All power is given
unto me in heaven and in earth, whom the elements of nature reverently
obeyed, and who at that moment was manifesting his supremacy
by suspending his own laws while he walked upon the sea. It was
the voice of one who obviously was able to do everything that
was necessary for the safety of the disciples. The storm might
be furious, but he could control it. The waves might be boisterous,
but he who marched upon their foaming crests could curb their
violence. He could, by a word, either still
the tempest, or preserve his disciples in the midst of it.
And it is the same voice of omnipotence which still speaks amid the storm,
he who made It is as true in reference to troubles of every
kind as it is of the elements of nature. That fire and hail,
snow and vapors, stormy wind, they all fulfill His word. He
has established them forever. He has made a decree that shall
not pass. The sea is His, and He made it. He set for it the bars and doors
of sand, and said, Hitherto shall you come, and no further, and
here shall your proud waves be stayed. And surely he who commands
and raises the stormy wind, which lifts up the waves thereof, is
equally able to make the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof
are still. Afflicted disciple, be of good
cheer. He who speaks to you in the tempest
produced it and can control it. The friend who bids you, fear
not. is the God by whom all things
were made. He who appears for your support
has but to speak, and it is done, to command, and it stands fast. His word is as mighty when it
speaks for the comfort of his afflicted people as when it said,
Let there be light, and there was light. Is anything too hard
for the Lord? But the recognition of this voice
as one of power is not alone sufficient to take away our fear. It might increase it, for he
who speaks is the God whom I have offended by my sins, and whose
power enables him only the more effectually to secure my punishment. If he can control the storm,
he may direct that lightning to scathe me, those waves to
engulf me. The acknowledgment merely of
the God of Nature is not enough to calm the agitated breast.
Until I can hope for pardon, the very perfections that render
him glorious, render him dreadful too. that infinite majesty, that
unlimited sovereignty, that boundless might, is all arrayed against
my sins. I must behold Jehovah as the
God of grace. I must see him in the person
of his son before my fears can vanish. And it is Jesus, Emmanuel,
God with us, who says, it is I. It was also the voice of love. The disciples at once recognized
it as such. It was their best friend who
addressed them, whose tenderness had been uniform, who always
made allowances for their infirmities, bore with their provocations,
and sympathized with their sorrows. They had never witnessed any
act of his life that was not marked by love. None who sought
his assistance were ever rejected by him, and to no request did
he ever turn a deaf or an indifferent ear. They were therefore perfectly
sure that his power would be put forth to help them. The same
voice of love speaks in the storm still, He addresses us, of whom
it is written. Like as a father pities his children,
so the Lord pities those who fear Him. As one whom his mother
comforts, so will I comfort you. Can a woman forget her nursing
child, that she should not have compassion upon the son of her
womb? Yes, she may forget, yet I will
not forget you. It is the voice of the consolation
of Israel, who was anointed to bind up the brokenhearted and
comfort those who mourn, and of a high priest who can have
compassion. What could more emphatically
prove His love than coming to this world of sorrow and sin
to suffer and die for us when we were enemies to God? Christ
Jesus left the habitation of glory for the stable of an inn,
the homage of angels for the insults of men, the smile of
His Father for the temptations of the devil. He left the raptures
of heaven for the groans of Gethsemane, the splendors of the throne for
the shame of the cross, the brightness of the celestial glory for the
darkness of the tomb. And why was this? It was love
that prompted the sacrifice, love to the undeserving, to the
rebellious, to those who then crucified, and to those who now
pierce him by their sins. And love still prompts his intercession
at God's right hand. Having done so much to save us,
will he allow us to perish in the storm? He who spared not
His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, will He not with
Him also freely give us all things? Will the love that has already
affected so much fail us in any extremity? May we not feel every
doubt dispelled when we recognize it to be Jesus who says, It is
I. The scepter he grasps is omnipotence,
but we need not be afraid when the hand that wields it is love. The winds and the sea obey him,
but the voice to which the universe pays homage says to every trembling
disciple, Be of good cheer. It is the voice of wisdom as
well as love. It might be asked, why should
not the power that can control the tempest have forbidden it
to arise? Why shouldn't the love which
tells us not to fear have kept us far from all occasion of fear? There is love in sending the
storm. no less than in appearing to
us in the midst of it. Afflictions are themselves proofs
of kindness, the kindness of a wise father, who withholds
not chastisement when he sees it to be for his children's good. Love, not directed by wisdom,
is often injurious to the objects of it. But the love of Jesus
is such that whatever is calculated for the advantage of his people
is sure to be bestowed. They shall lack no good thing. And are not afflictions among
the best of good things, if they tend to alienate us from the
earth, and to fix our affections more on him? Is not the tempest
an inestimable blessing, if it brings us more obviously into
the presence of Jesus? If, when all was serenity, we
were becoming indifferent to the company of our Divine Friend,
should we not praise Him for the storm that opens our eyes
to watch for His appearing, and our ears to listen to His voice? Are not our heaviest trials among
our greatest mercies when they reveal Jesus to us more vividly,
and unite us to Him more closely? Jesus knows that trials are necessary
for us, though the way to glory has numerous and incomparable
delights, yet he himself has told us to expect storms. In the world you shall have tribulation. The experience of believers of
all ages testifies that the path of sorrow and that path alone
leads to the land where sorrow is unknown. In some form or other,
at some time or other, suffering we should look for, because suffering
we shall have. They who appear exempt are so
for a season only. When the calm seems most profound,
the tempest may be gathering. The darkness, however deep, the
waves, however wild, are no disproof of Christ's love, but they are
illustrations that His love is wise. He does not afflict willingly,
or grieve the children of men, If the trial were not necessary,
it would not be sent. Now, for a season, if need be,
we are in heaviness through manifold trials. There is always a need
be, though we may not fully perceive it. Trials remind us that this
world is not our home. If we met with no sorrows in
our way, we would be prone to forget that better land towards
which we are journeying. The inconveniences of the road
continually tell us that we are only strangers and sojourners. We are taught our frailty, made
to feel the insufficiency of earthly things to give us lasting
and full enjoyment. and led, in our misery, more
earnestly to seek the aid of our Divine Comforter, and to
look to the Rock that is higher than we. Faith is strengthened
by trial. Every Christian grace becomes
more vigorous by exercise. Therefore, we are taught by the
Apostle Paul to rejoice in tribulations, knowing that tribulations work
patience, and patience, experience, and experience, hope. The Apostle
James speaks in similar terms. My brethren, count it all joy
when you fall into diverse trials, knowing this, that the trying
of your faith works patience. The Apostle Peter also encourages
believers to patience and cheerfulness in affliction, by the thought
that the trial of our faith, being much more precious than
of gold that perishes, though it be tried with fire, might
be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of
Jesus Christ. Not that the beneficial effects
of the storm are always felt while it continues, the mind
may be too much agitated by terrors, too much debilitated by sympathy
with a diseased body, to be conscious of any immediate advantage. And
thus, for our encouragement, we are told that no affliction
for the present seems joyous, but grievous. Nevertheless, afterward
it yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness to those who
are exercised thereby. So, in a tempest, the gale from
which the mariner dreads destruction often drives the vessel onward
in her course. This may not be perceived while
the storm is at its height, but afterwards, when the sky becomes
clear, afterwards, when the necessary observations can be taken, it
is often found that much more progress has been made during
one tempestuous night than many previous days of calm. This is
always the case with the storms that assail the believer. They
invariably speed him onward towards his desired haven. And though,
while the winds are howling and the waves roaring around, he
may say, all these things are against me, and fears being driven
farther from port, nevertheless, afterwards, he discovers with
thankfulness that the winds he dreaded have been wafting him
onward in his voyage, and that the waves, which seem to threaten
him with death, have borne him heavenward. It is I. Yes, the result proves it was
Jesus. How many of His people in all
ages have echoed the sentiment of the psalmist? It was good
for me that I have been afflicted. It is this that He intends. Whom
the Lord loves, He chastens, and scourges every son whom He
receives. If you endure chastening, God
deals with you as with sons. Children seldom see, at the time
they are corrected, what advantage can result from it. They may
think it hard to be denied this gratification, to submit to that
exercise of discipline, to be made to apply themselves to a
course of tedious study, or to take nauseous medicine when they
are ill. But it is wise love in the parent
that imposes present pain for the sake of permanent advantage. Earthly fathers may err, but
our Heavenly Father never. What He does is always for our
profit. We know that all things work
together for good to those who love God. Then let us not murmur
at the storm. Would we be children, and not
be chastened, overcome, and not contend? Be gold, and not be
tried? Be Christians, and not suffer? As the bush which Moses beheld
on Horeb was not consumed although in flames, for God was there,
and as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego came forth from the
midst of the burning fiery furnace unhurt because the Son of God
had walked with them there, Even so, the afflictions that Christians
suffer cannot so kindle upon them as that one hair of their
head shall be injured. We may have to endure even fiery
trials, but we know that the furnace is heated, not to consume,
but to purify. In the language of Malachi, he
shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver. Does the refiner throw
the precious metals into the flames and forget them? No, for
they are too costly. He is anxious and careful respecting
them. He sits patiently at the door
of the furnace, intently watchful. As soon as he sees his own face
reflected from the molten metal within, he knows that the process
has been successful, and he abates the fury of the flames. So does
Jesus watch the furnace of affliction in which his people are being
purified, not allowing them to suffer injury and loss, but only
waiting to see his own image reflected from their hearts.
They come forth as gold, seven times purified. Shall tribulation,
or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril,
or sword, separate us from the love of Christ? The very contrary,
they unite us more closely to Him. We not merely survive, but
are victorious. No, in all these things we are
more than conquerors through Him who loved us. more than conquerors,
not merely remaining in possession of the field, but coming forth
unscathed from the conflict. and not merely unscathed, but
invigorated. He is indeed a conqueror, who,
resolutely resisting an attack, wards off every blow, so that
he suffers no injury, and who, though the conflict may be stern,
overthrows, disarms, and tramples under foot his assailant. But
if, with a generous hand, he raises him from the ground, and,
not content with overcoming his body by superior valor, subdues
his spirit also by superior love, he gains a victory yet more complete. By mastering the foe, he becomes
a conqueror. but, by converting that foe into
a friend, he becomes more than conqueror. Such is the victory
of the believer. The trials by which he is assailed
are not only deprived of all power to injure, but become the
principal occasions and instruments of his invigoration, comfort
and salvation. however foreboding their appearance,
however rough their salutation, they are bearers of Heaven's
most precious blessings. They wear the aspect of foes
only at a distance, and in the beginning of the fight. Soon
the Christian warrior embraces them as friends, and the weapons
that seemed pointed against him are by faith reversed, and become
ranged around him for his defense. His assailants are now his allies,
and thus recruited by the encounter, in all these things he is more
than conqueror, through him that loved us. The faith, which recognizes
in all events the voice of Jesus, is the true alchemy that transmutes
all baser substances into gold. However otherwise valueless,
even though pernicious and destructive, they now become a precious treasure. In the calculation of his wealth,
the believer may include his heaviest trials and keenest sorrows. The Apostle Paul says, All things
are yours, the world, life, death, things present, things to come,
all are yours. Men do not reckon losses among
their possessions. These all things are therefore
gain to those of whom it may be added, and you are Christ's. Afflictions, therefore, the frowns
of the world, as well as its smiles, the sorrows of life,
as well as its joys, the sad separations and painful approaches
of death, as well as the heavenly summons it conveys, the storms
and struggles of things present, as well as the calm and the repose
of things to come. all are ours. Were we wise, we
would not wish to part with one of them, for who deliberately
impoverishes himself? Did we see, as God sees, we would
understand how they were all working together for our good. But though we walk by faith,
not by sight, may we not be as certain of the result, since
God declares it, as if we comprehended the process? The storm is ours. There shall no evil befall you,
neither shall any plague come near your dwelling, is a promise
to the fullest extent verified in the case of all who dwell
in the secret place of the Most High. To them sorrows are not
evils, sicknesses are not plagues, the shadow of the Almighty Extending
far around those who abide under it, alters the character of all
things which come within its influence. Joys are enhanced,
and sorrows become joys. The day is brighter, and the
night itself is turned to day. Passing through this medium,
the lightning which would have blasted, now only serves to render
luminous the path, gilding it with glory. And the poisonous
stream, in such an atmosphere as this, not merely loses every
noxious quality, but, as it flows by the believer, refreshes, heals,
and strengthens him. Thus, the storm is terrible in
appearance only. The winds and waves which beat
on the vessel, instead of weakening, make it stronger and more seaworthy. The buffeting of the billows
renders its timbers the more compact. The voyage will be the
more prosperous, and the admission into the peaceful harbour at
its termination the more triumphant. For so an entrance shall be ministered
unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord
and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Trials, however evil in themselves,
become invaluable blessings when inflicted by a father's hand. of all the children of God now
in glory, it is true that he led them forth by the right way,
that they might go to a city of habitation. It was often a
rugged way, a dark way, a mysterious way, a stormy way, but always
the right way. It is so still. I may experience
it to be a valley of tears through which I pass, but whatever grief
I feel, whatever difficulties I encounter, It is the right
way, for it is my Father's way, and who so wise and kind as He? It is the way to the city of
God. Every step is necessary to take
me nearer to that heavenly home. The very toils of the journey
will result in bliss, and how soon will they be over! What
a bright dawn will follow the few dark hours during which we
may be tossed by the waves, toiling and rowing, the wind being contrary! Weeping may endure for a night,
but joy comes in the morning. How short the night compared
with the eternal day of which that morning is but the harbinger!
Yes, amid the tumult and terror of the tempest, Jesus, rendering
all things subservient to our welfare, bids us to be of good
cheer, saying, It is I, do not be afraid. God moves in a mysterious
way, His wonders to perform. He plants His footsteps in the
sea, And rides upon the storm. You fearful saints, fresh courage
take, The clouds you so much dread, Are big with mercy, and
shall break, In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord
by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace. Behind a frowning
Providence, he hides a smiling face. Moreover, the voice that
speaks to us in this storm is that of one who has himself been
tempest-tossed. He was once the man of sorrows,
with an emphasis to which none of his followers can lay claim. There are no trials they endure
with which he is not experimentally familiar. He knew what it was
to suffer bodily privation. He had nowhere to lay his head.
He hungered. He endured the torture and ignominy
of the scourge and the cross. He was despised and rejected
of men. His own friends forsook him and
fled. He endured unutterable anguish
of spirit. It pleased the Lord to bruise
him. He put him to grief. Being in agony, he prayed more
earnestly. His soul was exceedingly sorrowful,
even unto death. He sweat great drops of blood. On the cross he exclaimed with
a bitter cry, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? These
were real agonies, real temptations. It was not a fictitious storm
that burst upon him. It was not the mere appearance
of Tempest. The conflict was not imaginary. He was without sin, but not without
a struggle against sin. He overcame, not because there
was nothing to resist, but because love to his father was supreme
in his breast. The pain of hunger in the desert
was real and acute. The inducement to appease that
pain was real. So also the agony of the cross
was real, and Nature must have shrunk from it. But submission
to the will of His Father was a stronger principle. Yet the
struggle was severe, else it would not be true that in all
points he was tempted like as we are. There is no degree of
suffering or conflict which he did not endure. The wind never
blew against any bark so furiously as against his. The night was
never so dark, the waves never so boisterous as when he encountered
the storm. What strong consolation is thus
presented to our afflicted disciples. Jesus is as able to feel for
our distress as to deliver us out of it. He is a true sympathy. We do not suffer alone. He bears
our grief. What encouragement to come with
boldness to the throne of grace that we may obtain mercy and
find grace to help in time of need. We know that we have not
a high priest who cannot be touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The sorrows which oppress us
weighed more heavily on him. The foes we battle with more
fiercely assailed him. We but taste the bitter cup. He drained it. There falls on
us but a few drops of the tempest, but it spent its rage on him. If then he, the holy, harmless,
undefiled, escape not the storm, shall we wonder or repine at
affliction? In us there is much dross to
be consumed. But in him there was none. If
he suffered, not for himself, but for us, shall we not be content
to suffer for ourselves? He consecrated the path of sorrow
by his own sacred footsteps, and thus conferred on it a peculiar
dignity. As the thorns that lacerated
his brow composed a crown, so there is henceforth a majesty
in grief, which no earthly joys can boast. The King of Kings
wore a diadem of pain, and appeared on earth not as the man of gladness,
but the man of sorrows. Let us rejoice in being conformed
unto our Lord. Should not the servant be like
his master? If he encountered storms, is
it fitting that we should enjoy unbroken calm? If he led through
rugged ways, shall we think to traverse only flowery meadows?
It is a joyful thing to be a sharer with Christ in everything. All
enjoyments wherein he is not are bitter to a soul that loves
him, and all sufferings with him are sweet. The worst things
of Christ are more delightful than the best things of the world. His afflictions are sweeter than
its pleasures. Love delights in likeness, not
only in things pleasant, but also in the hardest things, which
have nothing in them desirable, but only that likeness. What
does the world accomplish by its hatred but to make us more
like him? When he was sought to be made
a king, he escaped, but when he was sought to be brought to
the cross, he freely yielded himself. and shall I creep back
from what he calls me to suffer? Has he not gone through all before,
and made all easy and lovely? Has he not sweetened poverty,
persecution, hatred, disgrace, and death itself, perfumed the
grave, and turned it from a pit of horror into a sweet resting-bed? It is I. Jesus calls our attention
to himself. He doesn't say, be of good cheer,
you are skillful, strong, persevering, and well able to cope with the
storm. But rather, be of good cheer. It is I. Our rigging may be rent,
our sails torn, our rudder lost, our vessel dismasted, leaking,
and almost a wreck. But when Jesus says, It is I,
we cannot sink. Nothing can injure us with Him. Nothing can save us without Him. A babe and Christ can master
the universe. But the babe does nothing. Christ
is everything. In our carnal pride we would
be doing everything, pumping, rowing, shifting the sails, as
though by our own efforts we would escape. But Christ will
make us know how vain are all our labors without Him. He alone
can save. When the Angel of Destruction
smote Egypt's firstborn, but passed over the houses of the
Israelites, the feeble infant was as safe as the vigorous man
was, if the blood was sprinkled on the door-posts. The strength
of the vigorous man could not have defended him. The helplessness
of the feeble infant could not have endangered him. So the blood
of Christ is our only and all-sufficient safeguard. When Jesus was in
the ship with his disciples, the weakest of them was as safe
as the strongest, for the security of all was the same, the presence
of their Lord. So it is with us in the storm. Our safety is not affected by
anything in ourselves, but is absolutely guaranteed by Him.
It is I. Whatever our unworthiness, however
weak our faith, Christ is our Deliverer, and He is able to
save to the uttermost. A helpless disciple, holding
the hand of a mighty Savior, will come forth unhurt out of
every storm. Jesus says, My grace is sufficient
for you. My strength is made perfect in
weakness. With the Apostle, let me respond
and say, Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmities,
that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore, I take
pleasure in infirmities, in necessities, in distresses. For when I am
weak, Then I am strong. It is I. This was a voice of
efficacy, of which the disciples had often witnessed. It had said,
Arise, take up your bed and walk, and the poor cripple was made
whole. It had said, Be opened, and the
ears of the deaf were unstopped. It had said to the leper, Be
clean, and immediately his leprosy departed from him. It had said,
Go out of him, and the demoniac was restored to his right mind. It had said, Arise, and he who
was dead sat up and began to speak. It had just blessed the
five loaves and the two fish, and twelve baskets full of fragments
remained after five thousand had feasted. and the disciples
had been before in a storm when Jesus was asleep in the back
part of the ship. They were in jeopardy, for the
ship was covered with the waves. But when Jesus rebuked the wind
and said to the sea, Peace, be still, the wind ceased, and there
was a great calm. Might not the disciples reasonably
dispel their fears, when a voice which had always been so mighty
said, Be of good cheer? Afflicted believer, is the voice
that addresses you altogether strange? Can you not call to
mind many a storm in which it has dispelled your fears and
soothed your sorrows? Does not the history of the Church
in all ages testify to the wonderful deliverances of Christ that He
has effected for His people? Have not His followers always
been tossed with tempest? Yet has not the Lord delivered
out of them all? It is not more certain that Christians
have always been an afflicted people than that Jesus has always
been with them to preserve them amid the tempest. How great the
cloud of witnesses who testify to his constant care and unchanging
love! how innumerable the multitudes
who have come out of great tribulation, and now, clothed in white clothing,
ascribe salvation to God and the Lamb. Yes, it is a voice
that has never spoken in vain. Be of good cheer, afflicted disciple. Think what He has already done
for you. He groaned, bled, and died for
you. You were lost, but he found you. An enemy, but he reconciled you. A captive, but he freed you. Blind, but he cured you. Dead, but he quickened you. He washed you from your guilt
in his own blood. He clothed you with his own white
robe. He renewed your corrupt nature. He imparted to you His sanctifying
and comforting spirit. He introduced you to the Father,
and you became a child of God. He now intercedes for you, is
preparing for you a mansion of glory, for God has reserved a
priceless inheritance for His children. It is kept in heaven
for you, pure and undefiled, beyond the reach of change and
decay. How often has He spoken to you
in tones of tenderness? How has your heart burned within
you as He has walked with you in the way? What peace and joy
have you experienced while He has held conversation with your
soul? Has he not turned your morning
into dancing, your night into day, and your tempest into calm
already? Having done so much for you,
will he now leave you to perish? May you not with confidence use
the same argument with which Manoah was comforted by his wife,
when, having been visited by the angel of Jehovah, he feared
they would be destroyed If the Lord were pleased to kill us,
He would not have received a burnt offering and a food offering
at our hands, neither would He have shown us all these things. Would Jesus have done so much
for you already? Would He have called you by His
grace, renewed you by His Spirit, comforted you by His love, and
preserved you to this day, if He intended now to abandon you? If he sought you when a stranger,
will he not take care of you now, now that you are a child? If the foe was loved, how much
more the friend? If, when we were enemies, we
were reconciled to God by the death of his son, how much more,
being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life? Will he refuse
to answer the prayers he himself has prompted? To fulfill the
hopes he himself has inspired. To honor the confidence he himself
has encouraged. To complete the work he himself
has begun. No, former mercies are a sure
pledge of the future inheritance. Former deliverances a certain
pledge of final safety. Amid the howling of the storm,
let this be your song. His love in time past forbids
me to think He'll leave me at last in trouble to sink Each
sweet Ebenezer I have in review Confirms His good pleasure to
bring me quite through How unreasonable is it for a disciple of Jesus
to worry We are told to cast all our burdens on Him, for He
cares for us. How unnecessary to do that for
ourselves, which is so much better done by Him! He has undertaken
to do all for us, which not only our safety, but our happiness
requires. His infinite love prompts Him
always to choose what His infinite wisdom sees to be best for us. while his infinite power enables
him to accomplish it. Are we not perfectly safe, then,
in such keeping? Suppose we could control the
elements, and that for some important object we had called forth a
storm. If we were in a vessel that could
not sink, we would contemplate the raging waters with pleasure,
knowing that they were fulfilling our own intentions, and that
a perfect calm would ensue the moment that we gave the word.
But this is actually true. Only the ruling of the storm
is in the hands of Jesus instead of our own. Shall we be less
courageous on this account? Doesn't He know much better than
we the special purposes for which the storm is needed, and the
precise moment when its tempest should be allayed? Should we
not rely with fullest confidence on His watchful care, and rejoice,
however loud the tempest, that it can accomplish only our good,
having no power to do us harm? It is I. Oh, how should all anxiety
subside at the sound! Are they caused by the cares
of this life? Jesus says, So I tell you, don't
worry about everyday life. Whether you have enough food,
drink, and clothes, doesn't life consist of more than food and
clothing? Look at the birds. They don't
need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your Heavenly
Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable
to him than they are. Can all your worries add a single
moment to your life? Of course not. And why worry
about your clothes? Look at the lilies and how they
grow. They don't work or make their
clothing. Yet Solomon, in all his glory,
was not dressed as beautiful as they are. And if God cares
so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow,
won't He more surely care for you? You have so little faith. All things work together for
good to those who love God. For the angel of the Lord guards
all who fear him, and he rescues them. Even strong young lions
sometimes go hungry, but those who trust in the Lord will never
lack any good thing. The righteous face many troubles,
but the Lord rescues them from each and every one. Why then
should Christians fear? And if Jesus cares for the body,
how much more will he supply the needs of the soul? Is not
his assurance, my grace is sufficient for you? encouragement enough
in every extremity? Has He not undertaken everything
for the sinner? Is He not made to us, wisdom
and righteousness, sanctification and redemption? However poor
and wretched and miserable and blind and naked in ourselves,
are we not complete in Him? What could he say that he has
left unsaid to calm our apprehensions? O afflicted one, tossed with
tempest and not comforted, I hid my face from you for a moment,
but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on you. For
the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed, but my
kindness shall not depart from you. Neither shall the covenant
of my peace be removed, says the Lord that has mercy on you. Do not be afraid, for I have
ransomed you. I have called you by name. You
are mine. When you go through deep waters
and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through
rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through
the fire of oppression, You will not be burned up. The flames
will not consume you. For I am the Lord, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. He is faithful who has
promised. He cannot deny himself. Heaven
and earth shall pass away, but his words shall not pass away. And he has said of all his people,
I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish,
neither shall anyone pluck them out of my hand. Let us believe
these promises, and there will be a great calm. As when the
disciples received Jesus into the ship, the wind ceased, and
immediately they were at the land where they went. So, when
we by faith fully receive Christ into our hearts, the raging of
the storm is over. The external troubles may continue,
but can produce no tempest within. The believer is kept in perfect
peace, whose mind is stayed on God. One of the martyrs, exposed
to public derision in an iron cage, is reported to have said
to a bystander, who expressed surprise at the cheerfulness
he manifested. You can see these bars, but you
cannot hear the music in my conscience." So the world, looking only at
the outward affliction, may see no abatement of the hurricane,
and may wonder at the composure the Christian exhibits in the
midst of it. They hear the thunder and the
roaring of the winds and waves, but cannot distinguish the voice
of Jesus saying, It is I, which so cheers the tossed disciple. They can view the outward trouble,
but not the inward consolation of the life hidden with Christ. It is the peace of God, which
passes all understanding. Let us then reply to the promises
of God in the exulting language of faith. Let songs of praise
arise from the ark in which we are securely borne along amid
the storm. God is our refuge and strength,
always ready to help in times of trouble. So we will not fear,
even if earthquakes come and the mountains crumble into the
sea. Let the oceans roar and foam,
let the mountains tremble as the waters surge. I hear the
tumult of the raging seas as your waves and surging tides
sweep over me. Yet the Lord will command His
loving kindness in the daytime, and in the night His song shall
be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life. O Lord God
Almighty, where is there anyone as mighty as You? Faithfulness
is Your very character, Lord. You are the One who rules the
oceans. When their waves rise in fearful
storms, You subdue them. Why are You cast down, O my soul,
and why are You disturbed within me? I will put my hope in God,
I will praise Him again, my Saviour and my God. When conscience accuses,
hear Him say, It is I, I who have fully atoned for your sins,
I who have blotted them all out by my blood. When the thought
of God alarms, listen to His voice. It is I, I who have made
peace by the blood of the cross, I by whom the just God becomes
the justifier of the ungodly. When the painful conviction of
shortcomings, after all our striving, overwhelms, again he says, it
is I, I whose white robe will cover all your filthy rags, I
from whose perfect obedience, and not from your own unworthiness,
you are to look for acceptance with God. When a sense of weakness
and inability to cope with the many difficulties and dangers
which surround us depresses the mind, again his voice is heard. It is I, I who have engaged to
perform all things for you. I who will never leave you nor
forsake you. It is I. This is enough to satisfy
every doubt, to quell every fear, to meet every difficulty. Am I guilty? Jesus receives the
chief of sinners. Am I helpless? Jesus is able
to save to the uttermost. Am I lost? Jesus came to seek
and to save the lost. Have I no merits? Jesus is made
to us righteousness. Have I nothing? In Jesus all
fullness dwells. He died for me. He lives to intercede
for me. He watches over, strengthens,
supports me. He guides me in darkness, cheers
me in sorrow, defends me in danger, and is preparing a place for
me in heaven. If He is with me, what can injure
me? If He is for me, who can be against
me? The winds and the waves may roar
around, but they have no power to harm me, while Jesus says,
it is I. And when the last storm of life
assails me, he will still be at hand. Yes, though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you
are with me. Your rod and your staff, they
comfort me. It will not be a dark valley
if his form appears in it. It will not be dreary if his
voice is heard. There is no such thing as death
to the believer. He who believes in me, though
he were dead, yet shall he live. And he that lives and believes
in me shall never die. Jesus, by his own dying, extracted
the sting from death, and deprived it of all power to injure. He destroyed death and delivered
them who through fear of death were all their lifetime subject
to bondage. We can echo the sentiment of
a departing saint who said, I can smile on death because Jesus
smiles on me. Or, rather, death disappears,
and Christ alone is seen. He holds the keys of the invisible
world, and is present at the deathbed of every saint, to liberate
the spirit from the corruptible body, and to receive it into
the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Let this
be our consolation when we mourn over those who sleep in Jesus.
It is not an enemy who has done this. It is no frightful monster
who has torn that dear one from our loving embrace. It was a
brother's arms that received the departing spirit. He gives
that important office to no inferior messenger, far less to an enemy. I will come again and receive
you unto myself." The dying Stephen beheld him when he said, Lord
Jesus, receive my spirit. Yes, it is Jesus, in that chamber
of anxiety and tears where the feeble tide of ebbing life is
watched so tenderly, and all is being done that skill and
kindness can suggest to delay the dreaded moment of separation,
Jesus is saying, it is I. In that darkened abode, where
the activity of love no longer holds back the floodgates of
grief, Jesus whispers, It is I. At that sad funeral procession,
each advancing step of which seems as though it were conveying
the mourners to their own burial, Jesus, as at Nain, touches the
coffin and says to the widow, the fatherless, the friendless,
It is I. at the open grave, where with
that dead body are to be sepulchred so many living joys and hopes,
Jesus, as at Bethany, stands among the mourners, and, while
weeping with them, allays their sorrow, saying, It is I. Yes, it is Jesus who has taken
away the departed spirit to the full enjoyment of a love still
tenderer than theirs. in a world where tears are never
shed, and pain is never felt, and death is forever unknown. Let us then be consoled by the
thought of the instantaneous and perfect bliss of those whose
separation from us we lament, amid the storm, in which we lose
sight for a season of those who were dearer than life itself.
This is the solace to our sorrow given, that they were born on
tempest wing to heaven, and are rejoicing midst the pure and
free, in the high home of God where there is no more sea. This
consideration should be enough to sustain our minds when a similar
tempest bursts upon us. Death, to the disciple, is Jesus. Every symptom of increasing disease
only proves that Jesus is near. The clouds may seem dark, the
thunder terrible, the waves overwhelming, but they only betoken the near
approach of our Heavenly Friend. He speaks amid the tumult and
says, It is I. I, who having prepared your mansion,
have come to take you to myself. Be of good cheer. It is I. Do not be afraid. Shall we shrink
from his embrace? Shall we not rather rejoice that
our deliverance draws near, knowing that to depart and be with Jesus
is far better? Newman Hall was in Scarborough
during tempestuous weather, and he observed early in the morning
two small fishing vessels approaching the harbor. The crews had been
exposed to the gale for several days, and their strength and
provisions were nearly exhausted. How eagerly they longed for the
plenty and security and repose which seemed now so near! But
such furious breakers raged around the pier that it was obvious
to those on shore that to attempt an entrance would be destruction. The cliff was hastily scaled,
a beacon kindled, and signals made that they must again stay
out to sea. In a few minutes the warning
would be too late. There was a moment's anxious
suspense. Then the little vessels were
seen reluctantly to alter their course, and disappointed in their
hopes, their exhausted crews had again to face the storm. How happy the contrast in the
case of the disciple of Christ! The fury of the tempest, instead
of driving him from his strong refuge, makes him only the more
welcome there. The harbor of Christ's love is
always accessible. The greater our distress, the
readier our entrance. And the final resting-place,
the heaven of glory, where that love is fully manifested, and
where those who enter are secure from all future perils, is full
in view when the great and final tempest breaks over us. How invitingly
does it spread itself out before the eye of faith! How perfect
the peace! How unbroken the calm! How ineffable
the bliss which are experienced there! No tears are shed. No alarm is felt, no temptations
assail there. The beacon blazes, not to repel,
but to allure. Angels beckon us to approach. Jesus bids us not be dismayed. For the last time, he says, be
of good cheer. It is I. No disciple ever suffered
shipwreck in endeavoring to enter there. The tempest that rages
outside only drives the laboring vessel more quickly in. Those
waves only bear the soul more rapidly home. That hurricane
only wafts the spirit more triumphantly to God. How brief the struggle! How long the repose! After you
have suffered a while, eternal glory! of the accumulated trials
of the longest life, we may say, with such a prospect, for our
present troubles are quite small and won't last very long. Yet
they produce for us an immeasurably great glory that will last forever. So don't look at the troubles
that we see right now. Rather, look forward to what
we have not yet seen. For the troubles we see will
soon be over, But the joys to come will last for ever. O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory? Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. Pity and pardon the fears Of
your poor, weak, trembling disciple. Help me to behold you more clearly,
more constantly. May I hear your voice, both in
the tempest and the calm. Let the kind assurance, it is
I, always be enough to gladden my heart. Often have you said,
Come unto me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will
give you rest. Lord, I would now accept your
gracious call. I bring you nothing but a burden
of guilt and wretchedness. Naked, vile, undone, just as
I am, I come. And I know you will not cast
me out. From the midst of the waves I
look up to you. I am come into deep waters. The winds are boisterous. The
tempest is high. Outward woes and inward conflicts
assail my feeble bark. I would soon sink without your
promised help. Save me, O God, for the waters
are come into my soul. Let not the floodwaters overflow
me, Neither let the deep swallow me up. The sorrows of my heart
are enlarged, O bring me out of my distresses. Lord, save
me, or I perish. Rebuke the waves, bring me out
of many waters, Let the light of your love disperse the darkness. Let the thunder of the storm
be hushed by your voice, saying, It is I, do not be afraid. Jesus, lover of my soul, let
me too your bosom fly. While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high, Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Until the storm of life is past, Safe into the haven guide, O
receive my soul at last.