Jonah 4:8-11 And it came to pass, when the sun did arise, that God prepared a vehement east wind; and the sun beat on the head of Jonah… This was the desire of Jonah when the Lord smote the gourd so that it died. In the disappointment of his soul he wept over it, and in the trouble of his spirit his prayer was for death. It is so with not a few selfish people. When sorrow touches anything that is theirs they are overwhelmed. They seem to feel, think, and act as if all the agencies of life and providence were in motion but for them, and as if all were out of order when they suffer inconvenience, and all rightly going when they are in comfort. This estimate of ill-being or well-being, in its relation to self, is extremely low; and yet it often takes a religious form of expression. Why should we regard calamities as in any way peculiar or severe because they come near to us? This distinction you will ever observe through life — the selfish make little of the sufferings which their neighbours have to bear, however great, while they are loud about their own, however small. The sufferings of the selfish render them more selfish, the sufferings of the generous make them more generous. There are, however, many instances in which the weariness of Jonah may fall upon the spirit without his bitterness, and without his misanthropy. Many a one, with a sincerer despondency, is ready to exclaim with him, "It is better for me to die than to live." How often is this the sentiment under severe physical pain, whether it is uttered or concealed. How natural, in the tossings of convulsive irritation, to fix the mind upon the quiet grave! If the love of life is stronger in age, the consciousness of life is stronger in youth. This very strength of consciousness may, and sometimes does, turn into a disgust of life. Having not deeply entered into the moral purposes of life, anything which cuts off the young from its sparkling felicities cleaves them almost to despair. The loss of this world's goods may fall heavy on the spirit, but the wound, though deep, is seldom incurable, — there is a worm more destructive than that which consumes our health and property. It is the worm of insatiable passion. This turns life into an irritable, discontented dream, with waking starts of more than ordinary loathing, in which the desire often obtrudes on the sickened mind, to be well rid of such an existence. Desire that once passes the moderation of nature is disease; it is worse than any ordinary illness, because it is in the mind. It becomes an inward and rooted malady. A man is thus a victim to his own best advantages. Many, whose circumstances and constitution place them much nearer to nature, are not always wholly saved from this temper. With all that is substantially needful for a good and enjoyable life, they become weary and sullen, and fret, and make others and themselves most unhappy; they are not content, because their wishes are not sound. I can conceive of one to whom life is worn out, and whose wish to leave it we can scarcely censure. It is one who has survived his kindred and his companions, and remains alone in the desert of adversity and the world. Many that are scorned elsewhere have an asylum from contempt among their kindred. They are nothing, or worse than nothing, to those who have only remotely seen them, and yet everything to those who have lived near them and with them. Much of dissatisfaction with life arises from a doubly false estimate of life. We underrate our own position in it; we overrate the positions of others. Out of this doubly false estimate spring correspondent false contrasts and desires. Take a certain level of comfortable existence to begin with, and life from that is equal in all essentials. All poetry, song, drama, fiction, and religion imply this. The passions are the same; the same in their experience, the same in their results. All that makes the essence of life is equal; and the proof may be put into one short sentence: — the grief or the enjoyment that reaches life makes nothing of station. But if it were not even so, yet complaint against life would be against wisdom, virtue, and religion. Where is the wisdom of that man who murmurs at that which he could not avoid, or could not have changed? There are those who say that they have lost all interest in life. It is to them and not to life that poverty comes; for life is ever rich in interest. Life is rich for the senses; for the affections; for the moral sentiments; for sympathy. If a man has clear views of God and of His providence, if he has a trustful and patient spirit, he will be grateful for his enjoyments, and he will meekly bear his griefs. He will try to extract from his circumstances all the good which they yield him, and he will not darken his position with imaginary calamities, Experience will convince him that he might be more unhappy, and humility will suggest that he has, on the whole, more pleasure than he merits. In the worst trials faith will teach him that earth is not his rest, that his afflictions here, light and enduring but for a moment, working for him an eternal weight of glory, are but as hasty April showers that usher in an everlasting summer. The day of life spent in honest and benevolent labour comes in hope to an evening calm and lovely. Earth, to each of us, is but as the gourd of Jonah. Happy for each if at the close of it he can say, not in a querulous discontent, but in believing trust, "It is better for me to die than to live"; or rather, if he can say with the tranquil joyfulness of old Simeon, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." (Henry Giles.) Parallel Verses KJV: And it came to pass, when the sun did arise, that God prepared a vehement east wind; and the sun beat upon the head of Jonah, that he fainted, and wished in himself to die, and said, It is better for me to die than to live. |
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