There is sorrow (as) on the sea; it cannot be quiet.
Life on the ocean
That which was true of the cities spoken of in our text, is also true, though in a different sense, of every voyager on the sea of life. “There is sorrow (as) on the sea.”
I. Sorrow as on the sea is divinely predicted. Voyagers you all must be. Out on that wide mysterious ocean which is swept by storms untold, and which teems with dangers innumerable, you must sail. Many of you axe as yet but as landsmen lying in the docks. You are admiring your vessel, and putting on nautical airs, and wondering when you will be freed from the trammels of the shore. Some of you are just dropping down the stream, your breasts big with hope, and your imagination painting glowing pictures of the ocean life beyond. ‘Mid the songs of the sailors, and the music of the passengers, bright visions are rising of sunny seas and blue skies, of mirth and boundless happiness. With all my heart I wish you God-speed. I would not unnecessarily becloud that fair prospect. May the sunbeams which begild the waves around you follow you abundantly. And yet, though at the risk of being charged with unkindness, I must warn you that “there is sorrow on the sea.” I would not, I could not, prevent your sailing; but I must remind you of that which should not be always forgotten, that in life’s voyage troubles will come.
II. Sorrow as on the sea is universally experienced.
1. From the mutability of life. I have no wish to play the misanthrope, to paint you a leaden landscape under a lowering sky, where no break of sunshine ever comes to chase the shadows from an ebon sea. There is sunshine! Though all life has its clouds, life is not all sorrow. But while life’s joys may be many and real, it will have its sorrows by reason of its changes. To-day the sea may he calm, and the sky may be without a cloud, but even while we speak the glass is falling, and the calm sea will soon be lashed into foaming fury, and the cloudless sky will soon be overcast with messengers of coming woe.
2. From the uncertainties of life. Which way to steer--what to do--whether to enter into this speculation or to avoid that transaction--how to meet this engagement, or how to be relieved of that responsibility--often drives men to their wits’ end. Business goes wrong, markets are unsteady, panics are abroad, and fogs and thick darkness so enshroud the mercantile world, that with dangers and uncertainty everywhere around, the perplexed tradesmen often just throws up the helm in despair, and allows the vessel to drift whithersoever the current will take her. And in his spiritual voyage the Christian is not always free from similar sorrow. With the Psalmist, we have sometimes to lament that “we see not our signs.”
3. The disappointments of life.
(1) Think of life’s friendships! Where we anticipated most consolation, there, in the day of our need, we were most bitterly deceived.
(2) Look at life’s prospects! You remember how hard you toiled to secure that position which you thought would consummate your joys, and be the very climax of your every earthly ambition. You remember how bright your prospects seemed to be. You know that towards the end everything was so apparently propitious that you never for a moment entertained a doubt of success. But you were disappointed l
III. Sorrow as on the sea may be greatly mitigated.
1. A good ship. Let a sailor be persuaded of the soundness of the ship in which he sails, and “it may blow big guns”--he is comparatively at ease. We want similar faith in the grand old Gospel ship. We want the unswerving confidence which will inspire us ever to say, “I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God unto salvation.” Classed A1 for ever in the heavenly register, this “everlasting Gospel” can never fail. In this good ship millions have reached the “desired haven” in peace; on her deck millions are sailing thither now; and there is room for millions yet unborn.
2. A reliable chart. Without this a man may well be anxious. By what chart are you steering? Is it the Bible, or is it the “Age of Reason”? Blessed be God, we know whom and we know what we believe.
3. Sufficient provision. Lacking provision, what can the sailor do? There is often such “sorrow on the sea.” Want often stares men in the face when they are far from port, and when they can by no possible means obtain supplies. This can never happen on board the ship of the Gospel. This vessel is stored abundantly with the choicest provisions of free eternal grace. (W. H. Burton.)
The sea, a parable of human life
The ocean is, and always will be, so long as man keeps the faculty of imagination, a mournfully suggestive parable of human life. The restlessness of the sea, its constant alternations of storm and calm, its treachery, for ever deceiving us by false appearances, the atmosphere of mystery that broods over it, all these contribute to make it the natural symbol of man’s condition here in this world. Take only one of those characteristics--mysteriousness. David had been visited by this thought also. “Thy judgments,” he says, while pondering the strange confusion of good and evil in the world, “are like the great deep.” The sea does suggest, with wonderful power, the mysteriousness of God’s providence in the affairs of men. “Thy way is in the sea, and Thy path in the great waters, and Thy footsteps are not known.” The human mind is by nature prone to the misgiving that fate rather than providence orders the procession of our life. Events, so the temptation whispers, fall out according to an iron law of necessity. There is no loving Father who notes the sparrow’s fall, and gives His children their daily bread; neither is there any blessed consummation, any final victory of the good over the evil towards which history may be supposed to move. These hopes are delusive; they rest on no foundation. The only thing of which we are certain is that effect follows upon cause in uniform succession, any given human life being as powerless to quicken, or retard, or alter the movement of this endless chain, as if it were only a tiny bubble molten in the fibre of the iron of one single link. This is what we understand by such words as “destiny,” “fate.” “necessity,” and this is the idea which the sea, looked at as a parable, most easily suggests. You sit upon some rocky promontory and watch the incoming tide. You note how wave after wave dashes itself against the hard face of the cliff, and perishes in the act. You observe that every now and then a larger wave comes in, and seems to make a braver effort; but that also, like its predecessor, falls back and is gone. Meanwhile the general level of the water rises and rises, until a predetermined point is reached, and then, as gradually, the tide recedes, sure to return again as soon as a few hours have past, and to make its mark a little higher, or a little lower, according to rules which the astronomers wrote out long ago, which you might have found all calculated for you in their books before you started on the walk. Surely, if there be anywhere in nature a vivid emblem of the idea of destiny, it is here. And, if anything were needed to heighten the impression which the eye has already carried to the mind, the ear might find it in the monotonous, melancholy music of the breaking waves, a sound which possibly suggested to the mourner among the prophets his pathetic cry, “There is sorrow on the sea.” What is the relief for a mind oppressed, weighted down with thoughts like this? “The sea is His, and He made it.” “Have faith in God,” said our Lord Jesus Christ to His disciples, when they found themselves in perplexity. Have faith in God. He who made the sea is greater than the sea. He who ordained the strangely tangled scheme of providence, is greater than His scheme. He who is responsible for the mystery of human life, holds the key of that mystery in. His hands. Do you ask for proof of this? There is no proof. If there were proof, Christ need not have said, “Have faith in God.” Where knowledge leaves off, there faith begins. At the outer boundary of demonstration, belief lifts up her voice and sings. Do you say, Convince me that the idea of destiny is false, and that the idea of providence is true? No, I cannot convince, I can only, by God’s help, persuade you; and yet, when once persuaded, you will be as certain as if you had been convinced; for what a man believes with all his heart, he holds as firmly as he does that which he knows with all his mind. “We know,” says St. Paul, grandly asserting his faith in a doctrine the opposite of destiny, “that all things work together for good to them that love God.” How did he know this? Had it been proved to him by strict processes of reasoning in which his keen intellect had been able to detect no flaw? Was that the ground of the confidence with which he spoke? Far from it. The foundation of his certainty was what he elsewhere calls the “assurance of faith.” And who is the teacher of this glad faith? To whom shall we go that we may learn to believe that God is love? I know not, if not to Him who, standing once upon the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, rebuked the wind, and said unto this same sea, “Peace, be still.” Did not He, the Redeemer, come into this world, and take our nature upon Him, and suffer death upon the Cross, for the very purpose of freeing men from the bondage of their fears, for the very purpose of breaking up this evil dream of destiny and enfranchising us with the liberty of the sons of God? Has He not made for us, as for Israel of old, a pathway through the dreaded sea, and having overcome the sharpness of death, has He not opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers? Well may He ask, Where is your faith? One who has done so much for us has at least the right to expect that we shall trust Him; having at so great a cost purchased us this freedom, He has at least the right to expect that we shall be thankful for it, and use it as His gift. (W. R. Huntington, D. D.)