"One leak will sink a ship: and one sin will destroy a sinner"
About this Quote
A ship doesn’t go down because the ocean is big; it goes down because the boundary fails. Bunyan’s line is Puritan rhetoric at its most surgical: a homely, working-class image pressed into spiritual service, designed to make moral risk feel immediate, physical, and nonnegotiable. The genius is the scale shift. A “leak” sounds small, almost fixable, but in the wrong place it’s catastrophic. That’s the psychological move: shrinking sin into something people might excuse (“just one”) and then snapping the reader back to the real stakes.
The intent isn’t merely to warn; it’s to collapse the distance between private misstep and public ruin. In Bunyan’s world, salvation is not a casual affiliation but a condition that must be guarded, inspected, maintained. The sentence also carries a quiet pastoral threat: don’t trust your own ability to contain damage. You can’t bargain with water; you can’t compartmentalize sin. One breach becomes an entire environment rushing in.
The subtext is communal as much as personal. A ship implies passengers, shared fate, collective vulnerability. Bunyan, writing in a 17th-century England roiled by civil war, religious faction, and moral surveillance, knew how fragile order could feel. His metaphor makes spiritual discipline sound like seamanship: constant vigilance, small repairs, no romance about human nature. It’s effective because it speaks in the language of consequence rather than abstraction, turning theology into an engineering problem where negligence isn’t rebellious, just fatal.
The intent isn’t merely to warn; it’s to collapse the distance between private misstep and public ruin. In Bunyan’s world, salvation is not a casual affiliation but a condition that must be guarded, inspected, maintained. The sentence also carries a quiet pastoral threat: don’t trust your own ability to contain damage. You can’t bargain with water; you can’t compartmentalize sin. One breach becomes an entire environment rushing in.
The subtext is communal as much as personal. A ship implies passengers, shared fate, collective vulnerability. Bunyan, writing in a 17th-century England roiled by civil war, religious faction, and moral surveillance, knew how fragile order could feel. His metaphor makes spiritual discipline sound like seamanship: constant vigilance, small repairs, no romance about human nature. It’s effective because it speaks in the language of consequence rather than abstraction, turning theology into an engineering problem where negligence isn’t rebellious, just fatal.
Quote Details
| Topic | Ethics & Morality |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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