Acts 27 is a very long chapter that occupies itself about a matter which, in human calculation, we might have said and thought could have well afforded to give place to other things in Paul's testimony. But "wisdom is justified." The ways and methods of wisdom, as well as her judgments and counsels, are all "justified of her children."
This chapter, together with a part of the following one, gives us an account of the Apostle's voyage from Syria to Italy, and his short journey onward from the seashore to Rome. The simple fact that great space is given to this in the history of The Acts of the Apostles, alone might lead us to judge that the Spirit has a mind or purpose in it beyond the mere acquainting of us with a fact; and so we shall find it.
It is true that the whole chapter is morally valuable in this sense, that it gives us a strong view and impression of Christianity to be found in all the ordinary circumstances and casualties of life; that the palpable, tangible world in which we find our present life and exercise, is the very scene in which the Spirit had His witnesses.
But we may expect to find in this chapter even more than these things—more than either one fact in Paul's history, or this moral instruction to which I have referred.
The company had been removed from the ship in which they had sailed from the coast of Syria into another that was bound direct for Italy (v. 6). But shortly after, dangers began to threaten, and Paul gets an intimation that the voyage would be with damage and hazard (v. 10).
This he had, I judge, by the Spirit. He does not gather it from the winds and waves. It is only the authority of the Holy Ghost that could have warranted a stranger, a landsman, a prisoner too, to speak on such a subject with authority, opposing the judgment of "the owner," and "the master," and "the more part." The rest, on the contrary, were directed by providence, so called. The south wind blew softly, and they supposed that they had obtained their purpose (v. 13). And so they sailed on. But a Euroclydon quickly followed the soft southern breeze, unexpected by those who looked around, but confirming the witness of him who learned his lesson from the Spirit (v. 14).
But the Euroclydon seems only to drive the Apostle into his harbor more closely. He learns the mind of God, and comes forth laden with the glorious harvest that he had gathered (v. 21). He rebukes them for not having heeded his former word; but, in the abounding grace of Him whom he served, and for whom he now witnessed, he pledges the safety of all who sailed with him in the ship (vv. 22-26).
The prisoner is thus the savior. He who was on his way to appear before the power of this world, and in chains, is the vessel for bearing the truth, the grace, and the power of Him that is above the world. This is after the pattern of the crucified One being the life of the world. This is weakness made strong. This is praise perfected in the mouth of babes and sucklings. This is the mystery of God's salvation in a world that has destroyed itself. Paul the prisoner is the savior. The lives of all are given to him who was in chains. The most despised one is the one whom the Lord of life, and light, and glory owns. And such a one gets all God's secrets. "Howbeit," lays lie, "we must be cast upon a certain island." He knew the detail, as well as the mere fact of safety. And he believed, in spite of all appearances, and with confidence pledged the truth of the divine promise and grace.
Here indeed was God and His saint. Paul, after this, allows much to be done in the vessel. There was a sounding, a casting of anchors out from the stern, and a lightening the ship ( vv. 28, 29). And he gives great encouragement and cheer of heart (N, v. 33-38). But he will have nothing to be trusted but the promise. If the boat be resorted to, confidence is at once placed in other resources, in provisions of safety independent of God, and then the promise will be rejected, and death must follow. The waters will swallow all who are not in the ark of the promise. But according to the same promise, the ship goes to pieces. It is worth nothing—never to be used again. But the lives are spared. Not a hair of the head of any perishes. Some swim, some float on planks, but all get their life according to the promise that they who were in the company with Rome's prisoner, but God's witness and treasurer, should be safe. "And so it came to pass, that they escaped all safe to land."
In all this, further notices of the divine mystery show themselves. There is a voice in it all, which may be heard. We have already noticed the prisoner as the savior—the despised and bound one in the scene being the only vessel of all the true glory and blessing that was there. How sensibly, how visibly, how audibly, all that meets the eye, and the ear, and the heart of him that is taught of God. It needs no interpreter. It is full of God's way, as I have already observed.
But here we have even more than that. The vessel goes to pieces. The lives of all are preserved. But it was not the vessel, but the promise that preserved the travelers. They had been committed to the ship; but the ship breaks asunder, and the promise is their ark in the waters again. All stewardships fail, and prove unfaithful. The church as the witness or candlestick, is broken and removed in the end; but that which is of God Himself—His truth, His love, His promise—survives as fresh and perfect as ever. None who trust in Him, and in Him alone, shall ever be confounded. The voyage may end in complete wreck. The dispensation may end in apostasy; but all who hang on the promise, all who trust the word of man's Prisoner, God's Messenger, survive. Some swim, others float on planks. Some may be strong and work their way more in the solitary strength of the Spirit, others weaker may hang about fragments that float around on the surface here and there, inviting the timid and the
unskilled; but whether they swim or rest on the planks, all, strong and weak together, reach the shore; they cannot perish, for the God of the promise has them in His hand, and no wind or wave can dash them thence.
Is there not then, I ask, a parable or mystery in all this? This is not Paul's voyage only, but ours. It is the safety of wrecked mariners, the safety of all believers who trust in the promise, and the God of the promise; it is the security of a poor, helpless, and tossed soul who has by faith found his way, and taken refuge in the sanctuary of peace, though all props and stays here fail him. Cisterns may be broken, but the fountain is as fresh and full as ever. Chorazin and Bethsaida may disappoint the Lord, but the Father does not. Hymenaeus and Philetus may disappoint Paul, but God's foundations do not. "All men forsook me," says he on a great occasion, "notwithstanding the Lord stood with me." And the psalmist in triumph exclaims, "If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do? The LORD is in His holy temple." Yes; the way to magnify our security is to see it in the midst of perils and alarms. The very depth of the waters around honored the strength and sufficiency of the ark to Noah; the ruthlessness of the sword in passing through Egypt, glorified the blood that was sheltering the firstborn of Israel; and the solemn terrors of the coming day of the Lord will but enhance the safety and the joy of the ransomed, whether with Jesus in the heavens, or as the remnant in their "chambers" in the land.