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The narrative of Jonah's
voyage, (Jonah i.,) and that of Paul's, (Acts xxvii.,) present several
points of striking resemblance. In both we have a tempest at sea, and a
ship in distress. In both the sea navigated is the same—the beautiful, yet
deceitful Mediterranean. In both the ship's-crew consists of heathen
mariners. In each ship, too, there is a remarkable passenger, bearing a
Divine commission. And in both cases, the peril, though eventually
overcome, is at one time so great as to make the very seamen abandon the
hope of being saved.
Not less noteworthy is the
resemblance between the two passengers. Both of them are Jews—Jews by
birth and education—proud of their descent, and strongly attached to their
country. Both of them, too, have their lot cast on an age when their
nation is on the eve, and even in the throes, of dissolution. For Jonah's
day is that which immediately precedes the captivity of the ten tribes;
Paul's, that which immediately precedes the final subversion of the Jewish
polity by the Romans. And, what is a still stranger coincidence, both are
divinely commissioned to carry the true religion to the portion of the
Gentiles most inimical to the Jews. It is to Nineveh, the capital of that
Assyrian empire which is about to crush his country under its iron heel,
that Jonah is commanded to go with the offer of Jehovah's mercy; and it is
Home, the metropolis of the Roman power, and the destined destroyer of the
Jewish city and temple, to which Paul is sent with the gospel of Jesus.
But probably the points
common to the two narratives, though not devoid of instruction, are less
suggestive of profitable reflection than the points of contrast; and,
accordingly, it is to the latter that the attention of our readers is now
invited, and especially to the contrasts, first, between the two
passengers, and, secondly, between the two crews.
In looking at Jonah and
Paul on shipboard, the first thing which strikes us is, that the former is
a fugitive from duty; the latter in the path of duty. Jonah has so little
heart for a mission of mercy to the Ninevites, or rather, he is so averse
to what he thinks the unjewish and unpatriotic task of bearing the
peculiar and exclusive religious privileges of his own countrymen to their
heathen enemies, that he refuses to obey the Divine command. Nay, not
content with merely disobeying it, he flees from the land of Jehovah's
oracle, that the command may not again reach him; and finding a ship bound
for Tarshish, he "pays the fare thereof, and goes down into it." Paul
embarks, on the other hand, not that he may escape an irksome duty, but
that he may be enabled to perform it. To him, no doubt, with his
thoroughly Jewish heart and his ardent national attachments, the command,
"Arise, go to Rome," is as heavy a one as is to Jonah the command, "Arise,
go to Nineveh;" for he cannot but feel that such a command amounts to
nothing short of this: "Preach the gospel to the oppressors of your
country; offer them that mercy which your countrymen have forfeited; ring
the knell of your country's doom." But he does not, like Jonah, "confer
with flesh and blood." He waves his own predilections in deference to the
Divine command; and, in spite of his sorrow of heart for his brethren
according to the flesh—a sorrow which seems to have been evermore his
heaviest burden—he determines to sail into Italy.
This radical dissimilitude
between the prophet and the apostle, in their feelings and conduct with
regard to their mission, naturally leads us to expect an equally marked
dissimilitude in other respects. We cannot expect that a man who is so
bigotedly attached to Judaism, as to be angry even with God for sending
him on an errand of mercy to the Ninevites, shall conduct himself on
shipboard in the same manner as a man who is at peace with his own
conscience, and alive to the claims at once of God and of the Gentiles. We
naturally expect, on the contrary, that while Jonah's ungodward temper
shall, like the dead fly in the ointment of the apothecary, cause all his
other gifts and qualities to send forth an offensive savour, Paul's piety
and benevolence shall so impregnate and perfume his whole demeanour, as to
fill, so to speak, the house with the odour of the ointment. And to this
expectation the facts answer.
How does Jonah demean
himself when the ship is like to be broken in the tempest, and the
frightened mariners, driven to their wit's end, cry every man unto his god
? Does he come to their help? Does he join with them in prayer for Divine
succour? Does he bestir himself in any way to aid or cheer them? On the
contrary, he goes down into the sides of the ship, and there falls fast
asleep. It requires a sharp rebuke from the shipmaster to rouse him; and
even when asked to help the seamen, if with nothing else, yet with his
prayers, he gives no practical heed to the request. He has no inclination
for work, and no heart for prayer. Soured, depressed, discontented, sulky,
he only wishes to be let alone; he cares not a straw whether the vessel
sink or swim.
How very differently does
Paul deport himself! At peace with his own conscience, and confident of
Divine favour and help, he is the very life of the ship's company; he is
all energy and activity. It is he who first foresees the coming tempest.
It is he who rouses the shipmaster to a sense of the emergency, and
stimulates him to meet it. It is he who passes to and fro among the
despairing crew, saying to each in turn, "Work on; be of good cheer. There
shall be no loss of any man's life among you, but of the ship." But for
him, the shipmen would have made off with the boat, and gone down among
the breakers. But for him, the soldiers would have killed the prisoners to
prevent their escape. It is his cheerful, courageous spirit that imparts
new life and heart, in the time of their extremity, to two hundred and
seventy-six human beings. What a mighty agent for good is a real man of
God! What an exhaustless source of moral energy does a calm and benevolent
mind supply! A Jonah, who is consciously at war with God and duty, is ever
straitened in spirit and palsied in action—in duty a cripple, in danger a
coward; but a man who knows that he is at the post which God would have
him occupy, and in the spirit which God would have him cherish, is bold as
a lion, free of mind and of limb, alert for duty, resolute in danger,
serene even in death.
As there is thus a marked
contrast between the two passengers, in respect alike of their feelings
towards God and of their conduct towards their shipmates, so there is the
same twofold contrast between the crews.
The mariners of Tarshish,
when the ship was like to be broken in the tempest, "were afraid, and
cried every man unto his god." But the Alexandrian shipmen, though equally
in peril, and equally afraid, gave no indication of any religious feeling.
Now, it is true that prayer in the season of danger is no sure evidence of
real piety; for men who never pray in the sunshine may be fain to pray in
the storm. Yet, even supposing the Tarshish mariners never to have prayed
before, the fact that they did pray now clearly proves them to have been
men of at least another and better temper towards God than the Alexandrian
sailors, whom not even the terrors of a watery grave could either draw or
drive to so much as one God-ward aspiration.
Still more marked is the
contrast between the two crews in their conduct towards the passengers and
others embarked with them. What is the conduct of the Tarshish mariners
towards Jonah, when they are apprised that his presence is the cause of
the danger, and that they have only to cast him overboard in order to be
safe? Do they at once proceed to throw him into the sea? Do they even
proceed to take this step when they receive his own consent and command to
do so? No; these brave tars continue to "row hard" to bring the ship to
land, anxious to spare the life of their dangerous passenger, and
unwilling to save themselves at his expense; and even when they are at
last shut up to the inevitable necessity of casting him overboard, they go
about the task with the utmost reluctance, and earnestly pray to be
forgiven for an act to which not even its necessity can reconcile
them:—"We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee, let us not perish for
this man's life, and lay not upon us innocent blood."
Is there any like
magnanimity on the part of the Alexandrian seamen? Do they care about the
safety of Paul, or of the centurion, or of the soldiers, or of any one on
board but themselves? Although Paul is not, like Jonah, the cause of the
danger, but, on the contrary, the palladium of the ship, do they care that
he perish? Their sole care is for their own safety. And so, the moment the
vessel is among the breakers, they let down the boat, under pretext of
getting out the anchors, and attempt to escape out of the ship. It is true
their selfish, cowardly scheme is detected and frustrated; for, at the
suggestion of Paul, the centurion gives the word of command, and ere the
treacherous shipmen have descended into the boat, the sharp swords of the
soldiers sever the ropes, and send it adrift. But the selfishness of these
men is not the less detestable that it is baulked of its object; and,
doubtless, when they perceive that their cunning scheme is defeated, and
gaze after the boat as it parts from the ship, and drifts away on the
rushing billows, their dismayed and scowling looks betray a temper of
mind—oh how different from that of those kind-hearted Tarshish mariners,
who stood with tears in their eyes and prayers on their lips as Jonah was
precipitated into the deep!
It is sad to reflect that
men of the same calling, and in the same peril, should feel and act so
differently as these two ships' crews. And yet such difference usually
comes out in seasons of emergency. Severe trials shew what spirit men are
of; and not unfrequently, when some unexpected and appalling calamity
falls upon a ship, a family, a city, a country, it is as if a separating
hand had passed through to divide men into two classes—ranging the
dauntless on the one side, and the dastards on the other. It is on
critical occasions that piety manifests its divineness, and benevolence
its sweetness; and then, too, it is that the ungodly are most godless, and
the selfish most iron-hearted. The tempest which spreads terror and
destruction here below only serves to purify and brighten yon upper sky.
It is worthy of remark that
the religious sailors were the generous ones, and the godless sailors the
cruel and dastardly ones — a union of qualities which, in both its phases,
is found realised in all classes of society, and in all ages of the world.
And there is yet another important lesson suggested:—The insufficiency of
mere civilisation to morally elevate the humbler classes of a community.
It was in an age of the world comparatively rude that the ship which
carried Jonah sailed from Joppa to Tarshish; yet the seamen who manned it
"feared God and regarded man." It was in the palmy days of ancient
civilisation, the culminating time of classic poetry and art, that
Alexandrian sailors bore Paul over the waters of the Levant; yet these
sailors were godless, and selfish, and morally but savages. It might have
been expected, that with the advanced knowledge and refinement of the
later period, the seaman-class would have morally improved; instead of
which, the seamen of Paul's day seem to have been much worse, morally and
religiously, than the seamen of Jonah's. So far is a high civilisation
from necessarily benefiting, other than physically, the humbler classes of
society, that it may well be a question whether the working-men of an
advanced country are not, upon the whole, more sensual, more irreligious,
more discontented, more of the earth earthy, than the working-men of a
country comparatively unrefined. It almost seems as if the effect of mere
scientific and industrial improvement, was to advance man's physical
condition, at the expense of his moral and religious character; to augment
his wealth, but impoverish his soul. At all events, this much is certain,
that something more than science and art—something more than trade and
commerce —something more than books, and pictures, and statuary, and
music, is needed to sustain the moral and religious life of a people.
Civilisation is but a fabric of painted straw when it is not based upon
those holy, humanising influences which emanate from the Christian home,
the Christian school, and the Christian Church.
It would be improper to
leave the subject, without bestowing a word of commendation on the
soldiers who accompanied Paul in his voyage. Think of their promptitude in
cutting the ropes of the boat at the command of the centurion, and thereby
preventing the cowardly seamen from quitting the ship. This act, indeed,
did really benefit the disappointed seamen; for the event shewed that the
safety of even the seamen depended on their abiding in the ship. But then
the soldiers did not know this at the time. On the contrary, they believed
that, by cutting the ropes, they were removing the last and only means by
which any one could escape from the wreck. They believed that they were
cutting off their own chance of safety, no less than that of the seamen.
Yet, did they hesitate to obey the centurion's command? No. In spite of
their belief that, by sending the boat adrift, they were only sealing
their own destruction, they hesitated not—they flinched not—they at once
did as they were commanded. And happily these Roman soldiers are only an
example of a self-sacrificing devotion to duty which has ever been the
characteristic of a well-trained soldiery. There must be something in the
very nature of military education and discipline to develop and strengthen
the nobler elements of man's being; for in every age and in every country
soldiers have outshone civilians in general manliness and magnanimity of
character. It is only a year or two ago since the heroism of the soldiers
who accompanied Paul was more than surpassed in similar, though more
trying circumstances, by a British regiment. The loss of the steamer
Birkenhead, on the coast of Africa, is still fresh in men's memories. That
steamer struck on a hidden rock, and in little more than half an hour went
to the bottom. There were on board many passengers, including women and
children, as well as a regiment of troops; but while there were boats for
the other passengers, there were no boats for the troops. How did the
troops deport themselves! As soon as it was ascertained that the ship's
fate was sealed, the roll of the drum called the soldiers to arms on the
upper deck; and that roll was promptly obeyed by all, though each knew
that it was his death-summons. On that upper deck they mustered every one.
There they stood as if in battle-array—firm, unflinching, calmly waiting a
watery grave. The ship was every moment going down and down; but there was
not one deserter among these soldiers. The women and children were got
into the boats, and pulled off in safety; but on that fatal deck the
soldiers kept their ranks the while, motionless and silent. Down went the
ship, and down with it went this heroic band, shoulder to shoulder—firing
a parting volley, and then sinking beneath the remorseless waters. God
bless our brave soldiers! |
