Abstract
And He went forth again by the seaside (Mk 2:13).
We have been thinking of the scenery of this Holy Land, the natural stage on which were played out some of the great moments in the ongoing and absorbing drama of God’s dealings with humankind. Last month, we toured some of the valleys, and now we head for the water.
These scenic sermons were conceived in the Scottish Highlands, where the traveller is rarely out of sight of sea or loch, where placid pool or raging burn come into every panorama, and where fresh supplies are likely to be pouring down with ill-appreciated regularity. Water, water everywhere. It’s a far cry to the sun-bathed landscape of the Bible. The Holy Land is chronically short of water.
It’s interesting, though, that in the Bible, we read about four so called ‘seas’ connected with this thirsty land. There is, at one extreme, the Great Sea, which was what they called the Mediterranean; and at the other end of the marine scale was a curiosity. In the Temple at Jerusalem there stood a large copper container, which held water for the many ritual ablutions called for by the sacrificial regulations. This cauldron held, according to one ancient source, sufficient water for 3 thousand baths, and its imposing scale impressed the Jews so deeply that they nick-named it The Sea.
Between the Great Sea and this water tank, between these two in size, that is, are two considerable areas of water, good sized lochs, as we should think, both credited as seas in ancient thinking—and both with something of a message.
The first is what they called the Salt Sea, what now we call the Dead Sea, and its message is symbolic. Its surface is some 1,300 feet below the level of the oceans, and it covers roughly twice the area of our Loch Lomond—but there is very little bonny on its banks and nothing living in its depths. It’s much too salty to support fish life, and the same excessive saltiness pervades the atmosphere and withers plant life along its shores. Because of salt it can support no life, and salt is there in this high concentration because this great lake is diminished only by evaporation. It is fed by seven rivers, but it has no outlet.
And what a parable is there! The life that takes and takes and never gives, will probably be desolate. It will most certainly destroy or spoil every living thing around, and will itself be dreary beyond words. The kind of man who’s so obsessed with getting on, with clawing his way up the ladder quicker than his rivals, with using anything and anyone to get him to that vacant room up at the top before the also-rans; who is so single minded in the quest for fame and power that he never has a moment for a kindly word with anyone who won’t be useful to him, or for participation in a bit of voluntary service, or for family fun, or for a neighbour in distress—that man will be a spiritual Dead Sea.
The woman who forever gets her way, who moves from an indulgent father to a hen-pecked husband, who always wants the next thing on her list and nags and wheedles and manipulates until she gets it—but who is always out of change when the Red Cross collector calls and keeps her clothes so good that she has never any jumble—she will blight her own life just as surely as she blights the lives of those around her. Now these two, of course, are lightning sketches, wild exaggerations unlike anyone we know; but both of them are living inside you and me, aye, both of them and dozens like them pushing us towards the fashionable selfishness that gets and grabs and never gives—and ends in desolation. The Dead Sea is both lifeless and death-dealing because it takes in and does not give out. The truly full and fruitful life stays full and fruitful by its giving, in the spirit of our Lord who made Himself poor for our sake.
The other sea is a more cheerful place. It’s 13 miles long, and at its broadest point some seven miles across. It’s also, like the Dead Sea, lower than what normally is called sea-level—approximately 700 feet below the level of the Mediterranean; but it has the river Jordan as an outlet, and presents, as one geographer describes it, ‘a beautiful sheet of limpid water’. It is, of course, the Sea of Galilee.
Its message is historical—for round its shores and on its waters, much of Jesus’ ministry unfolded—much more, quite honestly, than I had ever fully realized until I had the chance to walk its shores and sail its waters for myself. Perhaps a short conducted tour would be in order. We could begin a little north of modern Tiberias, on the shore where Jesus met with Andrew and his brother Peter, and the other brothers, John and James, and called them from their boats to fish for men. Then, half a mile along the beach we come upon the busy fishing harbour of Capernaum—for so it was in Jesus’ day, (although a handful of ruins now)—a thriving place and scene of many Gospel incidents. Here in the synagogue one Sabbath day the visitor from Nazareth was asked to preach—and how the congregation sat up at that service! They were astonished at His teaching. He sounded different—not at all like their own man, who was for ever quoting! This carpenter spoke with authority—out of a personal, intense experience of God. Here too among the fisherfolk he healed an endless-seeming queue of ailing people—the mother of his new friend Peter’s wife, for one, and daringly, a Roman soldier’s servant and—they told this story for months afterwards—a fellow lowered on a stretcher through the roof until he landed at the Healer’s feet.
Capernaum! Come out of this community and travel round the water’s edge for a few hundred yards and reach the spot where Jesus taught and cured among a crowd that had pursued Him from the local towns. The day wore on, and they would not disperse, and He felt sorry for them in their growing hunger, and by a miracle—perhaps a miracle of voluntary sharing—He satisfied their need. And here, not far away, is where, beset again by eager crowds, he used a boat as pulpit. From its prow, a few yards out, He taught the throngs along the beach about the sower and his variously scattered seed. He told them that God’s reign within their hearts was like a matchless pearl, worth sacrificing everything to get. He sketched for them a seaside picture of the judgement. It is, He said, as though God were a fisherman who, sorting out his catch, retains the good and throws away the spoiled and unsuitable.
A little farther off we reach the place where Jesus met the poor soul wandering among the tombs—a man possessed whom nobody could help or tame; and Jesus spoke with him and calmed him down and brought him back to mental health—so that when the other villagers arrived, they found the former madman sitting and clothed and in his right mind—so sane, in fact, that now his dearest wish was to accompany his healer.
And there, off-shore, is where the Master ordered Simon Peter to let down his nets, just one more time—which Peter did, although protesting that he had already fished these waters all night through without success, and landed a colossal catch.
And yonder, farther out, a mile or so from shore—that’s where a sudden Galilean storm hit the boat that Christ was crossing in—and everybody panicked—everyone but Him, that is. The fisherman all went to pieces, while the carpenter slept like a baby. Their boat was taking water, so they wakened Him. Not for the first time, he rebuked them for their lack of trust in God, and shouted out above the howling wind and crashing waves ‘be calm’—and some of those who heard Him were convinced that He was ordering the elements—and certainly the wind seemed to subside, the waves to grow less mountainous, and frightened men relaxed as Jesus took command.
That is the image that I want to leave with you. Whatever storm or squall you may be in or just about to suffer, Jesus is there with you. He’s aboard, not interfering prematurely, but available—and when you turn to Him, repeating the disciples’ prayer, ‘Lord, save us’—why, He will stand beside you right away, and he will make the crisis seem less critical, the fear less frightening, the blow less sharp—and you will face whatever buffeting remains with the serenity of those whose trust is in a Lord who is more mighty than the noise of many waters.
O sing a song of Galilee, of lake and woods and hill,
Of Him who walked upon the sea, and bade its waves be still;
For though, like waves on Galilee, Dark seas of trouble roll,
When faith has heard the Master’s word, falls peace upon the soul.