The Voyage to Heaven
“And when we had taken our leave one of another, we took ship.” — Acts xxi., 6.
PAUL was an old sailor — not from occupation, but from frequency of travel. I think he could have taken a vessel across the Mediterranean as well as some of the ship-captains. The sailors never scoffed at him for being a “land-lubber.” If Paul’s advice had been taken, the crew would never have gone ashore at Melita.
When the vessel went scudding under bare poles, Paul was the only self-possessed man on board; and, turning to the excited crew and despairing passengers, he ex¬ claims, in a voice that sounds above the thunder of the tempest and the wrath of the sea, “Be of good cheer.”
The men who now go to sea with maps, and charts, and modern compass, warned by buoy and light-house, know nothing of the perils of ancient navigation. Horace said that the man who first ventured on the sea must have had a heart bound with oak and triple brass. People then ventured only from headland to headland, and from island to island; and not until long after spread their sail for a voyage across the sea. Before starting, the weather was watched, and the vessel having been hauled up on the shore, the mariners placed their shoulders against the stern of the ship and heaved it off — they, at the last moment, leaping into it. Vessels were then
* The last sermon before going to Europe.
chiefly ships of burden — the transit of passengers being the exception; for the world was not then migratory as in our day, when the first desire of a man in one place seems to be to get into another place.
The ship from which Jonah was thrown overboard, and that in which Paul was carried prisoner, went out chiefly with the idea of taking a cargo.
As now, so then, vessels were accustomed to carry a flag. In those times it was inscribed with the name of a heathen deity. A vessel bound for Syracuse had on it the inscription “Castor and Pollux.” The ships were provided with anchors. Anchors were of two kinds: those that were dropped into the sea, and those that were thrown up on to the rocks to hold the vessel fast. This last kind was what Paul alluded to when he said, “Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, and which entereth into that within the vail.” That was what the sailors call a hook-anchor.” The rocks and sand-bars, shoals and headlands, not being mapped out, vessels carried a plumb-line. They would drop it and find the water fifty fathoms, and drop it again and find it forty fathoms, and drop it again and find it thirty fathoms, thus discovering their near approach to the shore.
In the spring, summer, and autumn, the Mediterranean Sea was white with the wings of ships, but at the first wintry blast they hied themselves to the nearest harbor; although now the world’s commerce prospers in January as well as in June, and in mid-winter all over the wide and stormy deep, there float palaces of light, trampling the billows under foot, and showering the sparks of terrible furnaces on the wild wind; and the Christian passenger, tippeted and shawled, sits under the shelter of the smoke-stack, looking off upon the phosphorescent deep, on which is written in scrolls of foam and fire, “Thy way, O God, is in the sea, and thy path in the great wTaters!”
It is in those days of early navigation that I see a group of men, women, and children on the beach at Tyre. Paul is about to leave the congregation to whom he had preached, and they are come down to see him off. It is a solemn thing to part. There are so many traps that wTait for a man’s feet. The solid ground may break through, and the sea — how many dark mysteries it hides in its bosom! A few counsels, a hasty good-by, a last look, and the ropes rattle, and the sails are hoisted, and the planks are hauled in, and Paul is gone. “When we had taken our leave one of another, we took ship.”
After long dreaming of foreign lands, I am about to leave you to satisfy that desire. Next Wednesday, at eight o’clock, I expect to embark for Europe. The emotions of this hour are not to be described. The joy of going is almost overborne, at this hour, by the sadness of parting. Yon have come to see. me off. I have made all my arrangements for going, and yet I am not ready to go until I have uttered, some counsels. Before I go I would like to see you all embark for heaven; and I have come here to-night to see you off.
The Church is the dry-dock where souls are to be fit¬ ted out for heaven. In making a vessel for this voyage, the first need is sound timber. The floor-timbers ought to be of solid stuff. Eor the want of it, vessels that look¬ ed able to rufi their jib-booms into the eye of any tempest, when caught in a storm have been crushed like a wafer. The truths of God’s word are what I mean by
floor-timbers. Away with your lighter materials. Nothing but oaks, hewn in the forest of divine truth, are stanch enough for this craft.
You must have Love for a helm, to guide and turn the craft. Neither Pride, nor Ambition, nor Avarice will do for a rudder. Love, not only in the heart, but flashing in the eye, and tingling in the hand — Love married to work, which many look upon as so homely a bride — Love, not like brooks which foam and rattle, yet do nothing, but Love like a river, that runs up the steps of mill-wheels, and works in the harness of factory bands — Love, that will not pass by on the other side, but visits the man who fell among thieves near Jericho, not mere¬ ly saying Poor fellow! you are dreadfully hurt,” but, like the good Samaritan, pours in oil and wine, and pays his board at the tavern.
There must also be a prow, arranged to cut and over¬ ride the billow. That is Christian perseverance. There are three mountain surges that sometimes dash against a soul in a minute — the world, the flesh, and the devil; and that is a well-built prow that can bound over them. For lack of this, many have put back and never started again. It is the broadside wave that so often sweeps the deck and fills the hatches; but that which strikes in front is harmless. Meet troubles courageously and you sur¬ mount them. Stand on the prow, and as you wipe off the spray of the split surge, cry out with the apostle, “None of these things move me.” Let all your fears stay aft. The right must conquer. Know that Moses, in an ark of bulrushes, can run down a war-steamer.
Have a good, strong anchor. “Which hope we have as an anchor.” By this strong cable and windlass, hold on to your anchor. “If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father.” Do not use the anchor wrong¬ fully. Do not always stay in the same latitude and longitude. You will never ride up the harbor of Eternal Best if you all the way drag your anchor.
But you must have sails. Vessels are not fit for the sea until they have the flying jib, the foresail, the top¬ gallant, the sky-sail, the gaff-sail, and other canvas. Faith is our canvas. Hoist it, and the winds of heaven will drive you ahead. Sails made out of any other canvas than Faith will be slit to tatters by the first northeaster. Strong faith never lost a battle. It will crush foes, blast rocks, quench lightnings, thresh mountains. It is a shield to the warrior, a crank to the most ponderous wheel, a lever to pry up pyramids, a drum whose beat gives strength to the step of the heavenly soldiery, and sails to waft ships laden with priceless pearls from the harbor of earth to the harbor of heaven.
But you are not yet equipped. You must have what seamen call the running rigging. This comprises the ship’s braces, halliards, clew-lines, and such like. With¬ out these the yards could not be braced, the sails lifted, nor the canvas in anywise managed. We have jprayer for the running rigging. Unless you understand this tackling you are not a spiritual seaman. By pulling on these ropes, you hoist the sails of faith and turn them every whither. The prow of courage will not cut the wave, nor the sail of faith spread and flap its wing, un¬ less you have strong prayer for a halliard.
One more arrangement, and you will be ready for the sea. You must have a compass — which is the Bible. Look at it every day, and always sail by it, as its needle
points toward, the Star of Bethlehem. Through fog, and darkness, and storm, it works faithfully. Search the Scriptures. u Box the compass.”
Let me give you two or three rules for the voyage. Allow your appetites and passions only an under-deck passage. Do not allow them ever to come up on the promenade deck. Mortify your members which are upon the earth. Never allow your lower nature any thing better than a steerage passage. Let Watchfulness walk the decks as an armed sentinel, and shoot down with great promptness any thing like a mutiny of riotous appetites.
Be sure to look out of the forecastle for icebergs. These are cold Christians floating about in the Church. The frigid-zone professors will sink you. Steer clear of icebergs.
Keep a log-book during all the voyage — an account of how many furlongs you make a day. The merchant keeps a day-book as well as a ledger. You ought to know every night, as well as every year, how things are going. When the express train stops at the depot, you hear a hammer sounding on all the wheels, thus testing the safety of the rail-train. Bound, as wTe are, with more than express speed toward a great eternity, ought we not often to try the work of self-examination?
Be sure to heep your colors up! You know the ships of England, Russia, France, and Spain by the ensigns they carry. Sometimes it is a lion, sometimes an eagle, sometimes a star, sometimes a crown. Let it ever be known who you are, and for what port you are bound. Let “Christian” be written on the very front, with a figure of a cross, a crown, and a dove; and from the mast¬ head let float the streamers of Emmanuel. Then the ht
pirate vessels of temptation will pass you unharmed as they say, “There goes a Christian, bound for the port of heaven. We will not disturb her, for she has too many guns aboard.” Run up your flag on this pulley: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God and the wusdom of God unto salvation.” When driven back, or laboring under great stress of weather — now changing from starboard tack to larboard, and then from larboard to starboard — look above the topgallants, and your heart shall beat like a war-drum as the stream¬ ers float on the wind. The sign of the cross will make you patient, and the crown will make you glad.
Before you gain port you will smell the land breezes of heaven; and Christ, the Pilot, will meet you as you come into the Narrows of Death, and fasten to you, and say, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not over¬ flow thee.”
Are you ready for such a voyage? I have come to see you off. This glorious opportunity is about to set sail. Make up your minds. The gang-planks are lift¬ ing. The bell rings. All aboard for Heaven! This world is not your rest. The chaffinch is the silliest bird in all the earth for trying to make its nest on the rock¬ ing billow.
But I suppose you have come here to give me a part¬ ing salutation, and I have some things to say in that direction. My heart is bound up in the welfare of this church. While the ocean may separate us in body, there are feelings of sympathy and affection that will not be sundered. If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget her cunning.” A little more than a year
ago I came here, not knowing what would befall me. By a long series of Church troubles that I have no heart to describe, this Church had gone into the dust. The people had fled. Some had gone to other churches; some fell back to the world; some had ascended to heaven, glad to get into a place where there were no Church fights. They fought, and bled, and died.
Church-fights are the worst of all fights. When good men battle, it is a Waterloo, with no Blucher coming up at nightfall to decide the contest. There is no contention like ecclesiastical contention. When the devil does get into a good man’s heart, he feels that his stay must be short, and he flies around terribly. And so it wTas in this church. They met, and resolved, and said sharp things, and looked daggers, and turned every thing up¬ side down, until the smoke of battle filled all the place. Both sides were so thoroughly cut to pieces that none were left to tell the tale. I thank God that, if they had to fight, they kept on until there was nothing left of either side. I came here and found the field clear. The handful of people that remained were of peculiar stuff. They were fire-proof. Nothing could drive them off; nothing could surprise them; and I have to say that a better company of people I never lived among. After having chosen me as their captain, every man took his place in the ranks, ready for marching orders. In solid column we have marched up to this hour, shoulder to shoulder, step to step. But nineteen twentieths of you are new men. You have come here because you liked it. You have come from Presbyterian, Baptist, Method¬ ist, Episcopalian, Congregationalist, Lutheran churches, and from no church at all. I mean to keep on stirring you up, and stirring you up, until I get you so thoroughly mixed that you will never again be assorted until the archangel’s trump shall sound, and some of you shall go to the right, and others to the left.
Of all kinds of churches, this is the kind I like best. If there is any thing in all the world distressful to a minister, it is to get into a pulpit where things are stereotyped and fixed, and where he must stand on the look¬ out for long-established prejudices, and have committees waiting on him to tell him how he must comb his hair and fold his pocket-handkerchief. Rather let me be doomed to the mines of Siberia than dwell in such a place. Shall not the man who proclaims liberty to the captives himself be free? Rather give me an empty church to start with than a church full of precisianists. I have no great fondness for fossils. I see more to ad¬ mire in one living horse than in fifty megatheria or mas¬ todons exhumed by geologists. Give me one man with a great heart rather than a thousand men made out of plaster of Paris.
I will not go away until I have thanked you for the kindness with which you have surrounded me. I refer not more to that which has been evidenced by overt actions than to that sympathy which one may feel but can not describe. I know that I dwell among friends; and though there are those in the world who do not under¬ stand me, I know that you do, and that in those tender hours wThen you go before God for a blessing you do not forget me. You are written in my heart, and the storm, and the darkness, and the sea shall hear my prayer for
Some of you I leave in trouble. Things are going
very rough with you. You have had a hard struggle with poverty, sickness, or bereavement. Light after light has gone out, and it is so dark that you can hardly see any blessing left. May that Jesus who comforted the widow of. min, and raised the damsel to life, with his gentle hand of sympathy and compassion wTipe away your tears. I can not leave you until once more I confess my faith in the Savior whom I have preached since I came here. He is my all in all. I owe more to the grace of God than most men. With this ardent temperament, if I had gone overboard I would have gone to the very depths. You know I can do nothing by halves.
“O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!”
I think all will be well. Ho not be worried about me. I know that my Redeemer liveth, and if any fatal¬ ity should befall me, I think I should go straight. I have been most unworthy, and would be sorry to think that any one in this house had been as inefficient a Christian as myself. But God has helped a great many through, and I hope he will help me through. It is a long account of shortcomings, but if he is going to rub any of it out, I think he will rub it all out.
And now give us (for I go not alone) your benediction. When you send letters to a friend in a distant land, you say via such a city, or via such a steamer. When you send your good wishes to us, send them via the throne of God. We shall not travel out of the reach of your prayers. We go to Scotland, the land of John Knox and Hugh M‘Kail, and to see Bannockburn, and the place where men bought their freedom to worship God, and paid for it by counting out in rich drops of blood the price of their souls’ emancipation. We go to England to hear the whirr of her factories, and study her castles, and admire her philanthropies, and acknowledge the supremacy of that throne on which a Christian wpman sits, an example of virtue for all the world. We expect to look at the land of William Tell, and to see God throned on the Alps. 13ut by day and by night, on the land and on the sea, our hearts shall run back to these pleasant associations.
“There is a scene where spirits dwell,
Where friend holds intercourse with friend:
Though sundered far, by faith we meet
Around one common mercy-seat.”
Meanwhile, take care of the interests of this Church. In your last hours there will be no work that will yield you such high satisfaction as that which you do for God. Let there not be more strokes of the hammer or clicks of the trowel on that Tabernacle than supplications to God. A field opens for us such as is seldom granted to a Church. By a mighty baptism of the Holy Ghost may we be ready to enter it. And now, may the blessing of God come down upon your bodies and upon your souls, your fathers and mothers, your companions, your children, your brothers and sisters, and your friends! May you be blessed in your business and in your pleasures, in your joys and in your sorrows, in the house and by the way! And if, during our separation, an arrow from the unseen world should strike any of us, may it only hasten on the raptures that God has prepared for those who love him! I utter not the word’ farewell; it is too sad, too formal a word for me td speak. But, consid-D 2
ering that I have your hand tightly clasped in both of mine, I utter a kind, an affectionate, and a cheerful Good-by!
“And when we had taken our leave one of another, we took ship.”