Stonewall Jackson's 200th Birthday

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Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson was born 200 years ago on this day in history, January 21, 1824, in Clarksburg, Virginia (now West Virginia). Fatherless at the age of two, and an orphan by the age of seven, Tom Jackson went on attend the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, and then served with distinction in the Mexican-American War. It was in 1849 that Jackson was baptized by an Episcopal minister. In 1851, he was appointed to the position of Professor of Natural and Experimental Philosophy, or Physics, and Instructor of Artillery at the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. He also joined the Lexington Presbyterian Church that same year, and would later serve the church as a deacon. He also led a Sabbath school class for African-Americans in Lexington, both free and enslaved, in defiance of a state law which opposed literacy for slaves. He married his first wife, Elinor (“Ellie”) Junkin, daughter of George Junkin, in 1853, but she died shortly after giving birth to a stillborn child the following year. He married Mary Anna Morrison, daughter of Robert Hall Morrison, in 1857. The couple had one child who survived infancy, Julia Jackson, born in 1862.

The War Between the States led Jackson into service on behalf of his beloved Commonwealth of Virginia. He had remarkable success leading his men, including the famous “Stonewall Brigade,” in battles at Manassas (where he earned the famous nickname “Stonewall”), and throughout the Shenandoah Valley, rising to the rank of Lieutenant General. On May 2, 1863, he was shot by friendly fire at Chancellorsville, leading to the amputation of his left arm, after which his commander, Robert E. Lee, sent this message: “Give General Jackson my affectionate regards, and say to him: he has lost his left arm but I my right.” After pneumonia set in, Jackson passed away on May 10, 1863, and was later buried in Lexington, Virginia. Hunter McGuire wrote of his final moments on earth:

A few moments before he died he cried out in his delirium, "Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action! Pass the infantry to the front rapidly! Tell Major Hawks," then stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished. Presently a smile of ineffable sweetness spread itself over his pale face, and he cried quietly and with an expression as if of relief, "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees"; and then, without pain or the least struggle, his spirit passed from earth to the God who gave it.

Jackson was a tremendously self-disciplined man, and lived by the Bible, and personal maxims, such as “You may be whatever you resolve to be”; “If you desire to be more heavenly-minded, think more of the things of Heaven and less of the things of Earth”; and “Duty is ours; consequences are God’s.” He was a modest man who, in the words of D.H. Hill, “would blush like a school-girl at a compliment.”

Stories of his faith abound, including this account from his wife’s 1892 biography:

This same friend once asked him what was his understanding of the Bible command to be 'instant in prayer' and to 'pray without ceasing.' 'I can give you,' he said, 'my idea of it by illustration, if you will allow it, and will not think that I am setting myself up as a model for others. I have so fixed the habit in my own mind that I never raise a glass of water to my lips without lifting my heart to God in thanks and prayer for the water of life. Then, when we take our meals, there is the grace. Whenever I drop a letter in the post-office, I sent a petition along with it for God's blessing upon its mission and the person to whom it is sent. When I break the seal of a letter just received, I stop to ask God to prepare me for its contents, and make it a messenger of good. When I go to my class-room and await the arrangements of the cadets in their places, that is my time to intercede with God for them. And so in every act of the day I have made the practice habitual.'

'And don't you sometimes forget to do this?' asked his friend.

'I can hardly say that I do; the habit has become almost as fixed as to breathe.' — Mary Anna Jackson, Life and Letters of General Thomas J. Jackson (Stonewall Jackson) (1892), pp. 72-73

Another comes from Brigadier-General John D. Imboden (CSA) and appears in 𝐵𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐿𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑙 𝑊𝑎𝑟, Vol. 1 (1887), p. 238:

I remarked, in Mrs. Jackson's hearing, 'General, how is it that you can keep so cool, and appear so utterly insensible to danger in such a storm of shell and bullets as rained about you when your hand was hit [at the First Battle of Bull Run/Manassas]?' He instantly became grave and reverential in his manner, and answered, in a low tone of great earnestness: 'Captain, my religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me.' He added, after a pause, looking me full in the face: 'Captain, that is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave.'

Robert L. Dabney, who served as Jackson’s chief of staff during the War, wrote of his concern to uphold the Christian Sabbath, even to the extent of

His convictions of the sin committed by the Government of the United States, in the unnecessary transmission of mails, and the consequent imposition of secular labor on the Sabbath day, upon a multitude of persons, were singularly strong. His position was, that if no one would avail himself of these Sunday mails, save in cases of true and unavoidable necessity, the letters carried would be so few that the sinful custom would speedily be arrested, and the guilt and mischief prevented. Hence, he argued, that as every man is bound to do whatever is practicable and lawful for him to do, to prevent the commission of sin, he who posted or received letters on the Sabbath day, or even sent a letter which would occupy that day in travelling, was responsible for a part of the guilt. It was of no avail to reply to him, that this self-denial on the part of one Christian would not close a single post-office, nor arrest a single mail-coach in the whole country. His answer was, that unless some Christians would begin singly to practise their exact duty, and thus set the proper example, the reform would never be begun; that his responsibility was to see to it that he, at least, was not particeps criminis; and that whether others would co-operate, was their concern, not his. — Robert L. Dabney, Life and Campaigns of Lieut.-Gen. Thomas J. Jackson (Stonewall Jackson) (1866), p. 88

Jackson would be the first to acknowledge that he was a sinner, in need of the grace of Jesus Christ every hour. His list of maxims shows the kind of man he strived to be, and by all accounts from those around him, including his opponents, he was the model of a Christian gentleman, as well as a Christian soldier. We honor him two centuries after he entered this world in part because he was a heavenly-minded man who did much earthly good.

W.H. Fentress: No Sea in Heaven

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Read the scripture, not only as an history, but as a love-letter sent to you from God which may affect your hearts. -- Thomas Watson, A Body of Practical Divinity, p. 27

Considering he was blind, the word-pictures painted by William Henry Fentress (1851-1880) are all the more remarkable. In one sermon from his volume Love Truths From the Bible (1879), he speaks of the ocean with tremendous insight into matters temporal and spiritual. The sermon is “No Sea in Heaven” (based on Rev. 21:1: “and there was no more sea”) and the extracts which follow are intended to whet the appetite for all of his sermons.

Have you ever stood by the sea? have you ever had the sense of being lost in the contemplation of its wonders? have you ever seen, and heard, and realized what it has to reveal? if so, you have been admitted to one of the grandest privileges known to the lovers of nature. It seems impossible that even the careless should pass by the sea uninfluenced: there is so much to engage the attention; so much to compel interest; a very spell, a fascination in its presence. To the thoughtful it is most impressive; unfolding to consciousness mysteries of thought and sentiment that banish the common things of life; that produce an experience beyond language to define; that give, as it were, a new being, with other motives, other powers, other ambitions. These impressions come again when the sea is far away, as we fancy that the night heavens of the Orient recur to the traveller, who has once enjoyed their sublime magnificence; as the splendors of royalty haunt the mind of an exiled Napoleon; as the awful meeting of contending armies is recalled by the old veteran, when the war has long been over, and lie is resting with his little ones about him in his peaceful home.

The sky, the forests, the mountains, all have attractions peculiar to themselves; and so has the sea. Behold the giant waves, crimsoned with sunbeams! or silvered by the light of the moon! how majestically they rise and fall ! Now raging under the lash of the storm demon, now moving in calm with long measured roll, they seem impatient of restraint, as if possessed by a spirit of life; as if some mighty force were rocking the cradle of the deep. Hear the rush of waters, the waves struggling and dying on the sands, the deep thunder of the breakers on the shore! and strangely with the deafening tumult mingle the wild shriek of the seagull and the soft note of the curlew. For miles inland upon the hush of night comes the monotone of the ocean. It is as the sound of a distant, heavy-rolling train. It is an unbroken anthem of praise to the great Creator. The beach is strewn with shells of every size, and shape, and color. Have you never kneeled upon the hard, white sand to gather these bright offerings washed up by the surf? and when a larger one was found, have listened with a child's delight to the whisper of some far off sea, laving the shores of some distant isle, or continent? These shells are nature's beautiful playthings, adorning the frame-work, in which she has placed the master-piece of her art. What a setting! what a picture! commanding the admiration not only of earth, for the hosts of heaven delight to mirror themselves in the boundless, blue expanse.

Fentress continues to expound upon the vast expanse of the ocean and its deepest depths which harbor shipwrecks, treasures, animals, caves and more, culminating in this cry: “O sea! Not only man, but thou also art wonderfully and fearfully made.”

It is thus evident, that the sea is not the source of a perfect joy. Far from it! It has features, occasions and associations which are productive of sadness and suffering. Has it beautiful shells and pearls? It has also loathesome weeds and reptiles. Has it fairy isles and safe harbors? It has also dangerous Scylla and Charybdis. Has it warm streams, that moderate climate and contribute to human comfort? It has also floating fields and mountains of ice, which are a terror to man. Do its waves appear fair and bright in the sunshine? When clouds gather and the wind spirit goes abroad, they are terrible to look upon. Is there majestic music in the roar of the surf? to the mariner whose vessel driven from its course, is hurrying toward the breakers, it is a knell of death. Does it bring to ns the treasures of India and other lands? alas! it sometimes bears away dear treasures of our hearts, and returns them no more. Hence, as we learn from our text, there will be no sea in heaven: for "God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

As beautiful as the sea is to behold, Fentress reminds us that its wide expanse separates divides continents and separates mariners from their loved ones; while in heaven, there is no separation between spirits, no division between members of Christ’s body. Though at times it may seem placidly calm, the sea is a place of change with its tides which ebb and flow, and its tempests which bring such violence and danger; whereas, in heaven, there is eternal rest from this life’s storms, and peace from the contrary gales which we all experience.

O mariners on the sea of life, seeking rest but finding none; make your reckoning with a view to eternity; take the Bible as your chart; hold your course straight for the Star of Bethlehem; and in the fiercest storm, through the darkest night keep a brave heart, relying upon God: and though the voyage be long, and wearying, and beset with difficulties and trials, peace will be reached at last.

There will be noble strivings in heaven. The spirits of just men made perfect, will vie with each other in obedience, love and consecration to Him who loved them; who washed them from their sins in His own precious blood; who made them Kings and Priests unto God. The law of progress will demand ambition, increase, change: ambition to be holy, as God is holy; increase in grace and knowledge of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and change by advancing in the divine image: but there will be no sea in heaven; that is, no restlessness, no discontent with what you are, and have. For earth, with all its petty cares, its fevered dreams, its nameless longings, its unsatisfying pleasures, will have passed away; the realties of the life in God, will bring to the troubled heart profound calm; the Prince of peace will give His own peace to the weary soul, and not a wave of care will ever disturb the deep serenity of that life in the bright Forever.

Our speaker puts his finger on that which troubles the mind and heart of many believers in this life: fear. And death.

Now in human affairs the possible, more than the actual, is the cause of distress. Life's fabric takes its sombre colors, more from what may be than what is. In other words, fear is the main, disturbing element to human peace: but in heaven there will be nothing of this. There, doubt, uncertainty, danger, and threatenings of misfortune will have no place. We shall know, even as we are known; we shall love, even as we are loved: and perfect knowledge and perfect love will cast out all fear. O the trust and confidence and security that will be the heritage of God's children, when gathered home; when folded at last in the Father's embrace! No sea in heaven; that is, no fear.

But is it not written, that "the sea shall give up the dead that are in it, and that Death and Hell shall be cast into the lake of fire?'' In heaven therefore, the daughters of music will not be brought low: nor desire fail because man goeth to his long home: nor mourners go about the streets: nor the silver cord be loosed: nor the golden bowl be broken: nor the pitcher broken at the fountain: nor the wheel broken at the cistern. There, there will be no gathering of friends at the bed-side, to be crushed with anguish at the departure of one beloved: no struggling for breath, then a marble coldness: no damp wiped from the brow; no eyes closed by the hands of another. There will be no tolling of bells; no procession in black; no speaking of the words, "dust to dust." There will be no turning away, to leave a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a husband, a wife, a child, or a dear friend to solitude and night; no going back to the house with the awful feeling, that we have no more a home; no strewing of flowers on fresh, green mounds. Thank God! there will be no church-yards in heaven. No sea in heaven; that is, no death.

Those who gaze out at the horizon may with difficulty at times discern where the sea ends and heaven begins. But those with spiritual sight are taught here to look up to the center of heaven where our Chief Pilot, who commands the winds and the waves, will navigate us home.

Jesus brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. He has gone to prepare a place, to make ready the many mansions, that where He is, His disciples may be also. Yes, to Jesus, and Jesus only do we owe our sweet hope of heaven. Heaven, that golden clime far beyond life's troubled ocean! Heaven, on whose blissful shores no waves ever break! Heaven, that land of love and loveliness! Heaven, that paradise home, where the pure in heart are joined forever! You and I have loved ones already there. We parted from them, as from our very life. The world has never seemed so fair and bright since they went away. Are we seeking for re-union in that better country? Let us then be sure to take the homeward way. Let us run with patience the race set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. Let us fight the good fight of faith, and sing the victor's song. Let us go forth, and accomplish the voyage, marked out for us on the sea of life: not as the disciple who began to sink because of unbelief; but with unwavering trust in God, that He will not let the waves and the billows go over us; that He will direct our course aright; that He will be our guide and refuge to the last: and be assured, He will then receive us to that haven of rest, where the sorrows of the sea are no more.

Read this and other sermons by W.H. Fentress here, and meditate on such “love truths from the Bible,” for our author would have you “look unto Jesus.”

A Walk Through Green-Wood Cemetery

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If you are one of those rare individuals who enjoys strolling through cemeteries and contemplating the past, you may appreciate this post. If historic cemeteries are not your cup of tea, please indulge this writer’s request for a few moments of your time to consider nevertheless the conjunction in history of some notable persons who once took such a stroll together and wrote about the meaning it had for them.

Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York.

The year was 1878. Dean Stanley (A.P. Stanley), the English Anglican historian, was touring America and had occasion to give a lecture on the noted Biblical geographer Edward Robinson. Both Philip Schaff and Theodore L. Cuyler tell the story of the tour of Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York that followed.

In David S. Schaff, The Life of Philip Schaff, in Part Autobiographical, pp. 329-330, we find this account:

The following day [after Dean Stanley’s lecture], Dr. Schaff, in company with Dr. Theodore L. Cuyler and Dr. Henry M. Field, accompanied the dean on a pilgrimage to Greenwood Cemetery to visit the grave of Dr. Edward Robinson. "This was a most interesting and touching visit," he notes, "of four mourners to the grave of that eminent scholar to whom Stanley paid such a graceful tribute in Union Seminary. Dr. Robinson's son and daughter were there by appointment to meet us. After looking at the simple granite monument, the dean exclaimed, 'That granite crown is simple solidity, just like the man himself.'" From there, the party went to the grave of Dr. Cuyler's little boy, George, whose death was the occasion of that book of comfort to the bereaved, The Empty Crib.

The site where Georgie Cuyler is laid to rest at Green-Wood Cemetery.

Dr. Cuyler writes in Recollections of a Long Life: An Autobiography, pp. 96-97, speaking of the book written after the death of his young son Georgie:

Dean Stanley read it aloud to Lady Augusta Stanley in the Deanery of Westminster ; and when I took him to our own unrivalled Greenwood Cemetery he asked to be driven to the spot where the dust of our dear boy is slumbering. many thousands have visited that grave and gazed with tender admiration on the exquisite marble medallion of the childface, — by the sculptor, Charles Calverley, — which adorns the monument.

Cuyler goes (pp. 113-114) to speak at greater length of that 1878 visit to the cemetery with his friends.

When Dean Stanley visited America in the autumn of 1878, I met him several times, and he was especially cordial, and all the more so because of my out-spoken letter [offering a gentle criticism of a sermon preached by Dean Stanley]. The first time I met him was at the meeting of ministers of New York to give him a reception, and hear him deliver a discourse on Dr. Robinson, the Oriental geographer. He recognized me in the audience, came forward to the front of the platform, beckoned me up, and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. I arranged to take him to Greenwood Cemetery on the morning before he sailed for home, and after breakfasting with him at Cyrus W. Field's we started for the cemetery. Dr. Phillip Schaff and Dr. Henry M. Field met us at the ferry, and accompanied us. When we entered the elevated railroad car, Stanley exclaimed: "This is like the chariots on the walls of Babylon." With his keen interest in history he inquired when we reached the lower part of the Bowery, near the junction of Chatham Square: "Was it not near here that Nathan Hale, the martyr, was executed?" and he showed then a more accurate knowledge of our local history than one New Yorker in ten thousand can boast! That was probably the exact locality, and Dean Stanley had never been there before. Before entering the Greenwood Cemetery he requested me to drive him to the spot where my little child was buried, whose photograph in "The Empty Crib" I have referred to in a previous chapter. When we reached the burial lot he got out of the carriage, and in the driving wind, of a raw November morning, spent some time in examining the marble medallion of the child, and in talking with my wife most sweetly about him. I could have hugged the man on the spot. It was so like Stanley. I do not wonder that everybody loved him. We then drove to the tomb of Dr. Edward Robinson and the Dean said to us: “In all my travels in Palestine I carried Dr. Robinson's volume, 'Biblical Researches,' with me on horseback or on my camel; it was my constant guide book."

Dr. Cuyler certainly had a special place in his heart for this cemetery. In 1870, he wrote a short article called A Walk in Greenwood Cemetery, New York, in which he states: “For some years past, my favorite resort has been the beautiful and incomparable Greenwood. It has no rival in the world.” He speaks of the connection between this spot and his little Georgie:

Yesterday I went to Greenwood alone. How often, in times past, have I walked there with a pair of little feet tripping beside me, which now, alas! are laid under a mound of green turf and flowers. The night before the precious child departed, having wearied himself with play, he quaintly said, “My little footies are tired at both ends.” Ere twenty-four hours were past, the tired feet had ended life’s short journey, and were laid to the dreamless rest.

Further on, in his concluding remarks on that particular 1870 visit, he shares his farewell thoughts:

To me, the most captivating view is from Sylvan Cliff, overlooking Sylvan Water. On that green brow stands a monument which bears the figure of Faith kneeling before a cross, and beneath it the world-known lines of Toplady: —

”Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to thy cross I cling!”

As I stood beside that graceful tablet yesterday, the light of an October sun threw its mellow radiance over the crimsoning foliage, and the green turf, and the sparkling water of the fountain which played in the vale beneath. In the distance was the placid bay, with one stately ship resting at anchor, — a beautiful emblem of a Christian soul whose voyage had ended in the peaceful repose of the “desired haven.” The sun went down into the purpling horizon as I stood there; a bird or two was twittering its evening song; the air was as silent as the unnumbered sleepers around me; and, turning toward the sacred spot where my precious dead is lying, I bade him as of old, Good-night!

The Cuyler family plot at Green-Wood Cemetery.

To this “garden of souls” Dr. Cuyler would eventually return, along with many of his family members, to await to the final resurrection. Among those with whom his body is laid to rest, besides little Georgie, are his wife Annie (d. 1915), his daughter Louise (d. 1881), whose death inspired Cuyler to write his classic devotional work of comfort God’s Light on Dark Clouds, others that bear his name such as Theodore L. Cuyler, Jr. (d. 1943), Theodore L. Cuyler III (d. 1976), and Theodore L. Cuyler IV (d. 2003).

The cemetery may seem to be full of death, but to those who tread lightly and take time to study the epitaphs on the tombstones, it may be found that one seemingly in the midst of death is in fact in the midst of life. The lives of those who have gone before remind us of precious blessings that God has given for a time, and the journey that is not yet over. We may not recognize all the names we pass, but “no man is an island…because I am involved with mankind” (Donne). For those personally touched by the tombstones we visit, “weeping may endure for a night” (Ps. 30:5), but what comfort in these words, “unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings” (Mal. 4:2).

A 19th Century Example of Paying it Forward

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Writing for the October 1870 issue of Our Monthly magazine, Edwin B. Raffensperger wrote a brief Reminiscence of Rev. Archibald Alexander, D.D. Having read over James W. Alexander’s biography of Archibald Alexander, he took special note of a remark on p. 605:

During his illness he dictated a paper to be taken around for subscription toward the relief of a young man whose studies had been interrupted by disease.

Raffensperberger, who himself graduated from Princeton Theological Seminary in 1852, informed his readers that the paper referred to had been in his possession for the last 19 years. It was considered “a valuable memento of Princeton,” where he was a student at the time certain events transpired.

A fellow student from Ohio one day fell dangerously ill. Despite the advice and counsel of “eminent medical men in Philadelphia and New York,” this young student, a man of great promise we are told, lay near death’s door. At the house where he was staying, he was cared for by a brother and sister, the latter of whom would go on to marry one of the doctors who came to visit. The sick student’s illness included symptoms of spasms and feats of incredible strength (though unable to rise or walk, he could crush an apple in his bare hand).

Concern for this young man and whether he would live spread throughout the Princeton community. At the same time Archibald Alexander lay on his deathbed. One day a messenger came to Raffensperger with a request to approach the bedside of Alexander. Raffensperger tells of their conversation:

I found him very feeble. In a few touching words he expressed his deep sympathy for the poor student and regretted his inability to call and see him during the two years of his sickness. “I have asked my daughter,” said he, “to prepare a subscription paper, and the members of my family have contributed $19.00, which you will find inclosed with the paper. Will you take it and call upon the citizens and students to increase it to $50.00, and then pay half to the brother and sister who have taken such good care of him, and the other half to the student?”

I expressed my willingness to carry out his wish, but inquired whether he would restrict the sum to $50.00, as I hoped, with such a start, to raise much more. He took my hand and said, “Take the paper. Raise all you can and God bless you.”

It was a few days later that Alexander entered into his eternal rest. After Alexander was interred at Princeton Cemetery, a grand total of $300.00 was raised on behalf of the sick student and the brother and sister. Raffensperger continues:

Hear now the conclusion of the whole matter.

Contrary to all our plans for the funeral, that patient recovered, entered the ministry and has for years been laboring successfully in the West He is now one of the jolliest Doctors of Divinity in the reunited Church.

One wonders the name of this jolly minister from Ohio. Perhaps one of our readers will have an idea? In any case, this concern on Alexander’s deathbed for a poor student was an inspiration and a blessing to others, and the little-known story is worth of remembrance.

Remembering Theodore L. Cuyler on His 200th Birthday

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Theodore Ledyard Cuyler was born two hundred years ago today in Aurora, New York on January 10, 1822. He was a graduate of Princeton University (1841) and Princeton Theological Seminary (1846). He served as pastor of the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church in Brooklyn, New York from 1860 to 1890.

In his ministerial career and lifetime he published many books, and around 4.000 articles in the press. It is has been said that he was the “Dean of the American Pulpit.” He was a world-traveler, and was friends with many notable leaders of the church and society, including Charles H. Spurgeon, William Adams, Eliakim Littell, Richard S. Storrs, Samuel H. Cox, Henry W. Beecher, Archibald Alexander, James W. Alexander, Joseph A. Alexander, Charles G. Finney, Benjamin M. Palmer, James McCosh, Horatius Bonar, Dwight L. Moody, President Benjamin Harrison, President Abraham Lincoln, William Gladstone, Thomas Guthrie, Thomas Binney, Albert Barnes, William B. Sprague, Stephen H. Tyng, and others, many of whom he wrote about in his autobiography, Recollections of a Long Life (1902).

He was noted for inviting the first woman to preach from an American Presbyterian pulpit — Sarah Smiley, a Quaker, in 1872 — while at the same time publicly opposing women's suffrage (see his 1894 pamphlet, “Shall Women Be Burdened With the Ballot?”). Cuyler was also a Unionist, an abolitionist, and a teetotaler.

Source: The American Monthly Review of Reviews, Vol. 25 (Feb. 1902), p. 153.

Perhaps most significantly, Rev. Cuyler lost two infant children, as well as a 22 year-old daughter, and in the midst of his grief, he wrote God’s Light on Dark Clouds (1882), and other books and articles which spoke words of comfort to his readers. Many would say that the experiences he endured gave fruit to a spiritual comfort that only one who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death could comprehend and convey to others.

He died of bronchitis on February 26, 1909, in Brooklyn, New York, at the age of 88, and is buried at Green-Wood Cemetery.

Two centuries after his birth, we remember Rev. Cuyler with great appreciation, and invite our readers to explore his works which are available to read at Log College Press. A very prolific writer, we are still adding his works to the site, but there is much of great value to read even now. Though his name was often in the press of his day, he was a most humble minister of the gospel. A park in Brooklyn is named after him but he declined the erection of a statue in his honor. He once said, "A genuine revival means trimming of personal lamps." When remembering Cuyler, we give glory to the God who called him to the ministry, and we note that Cuyler’s legacy points us, even now, to Beulah-Land.

Two Letters on the Death of Mrs. Mary Augusta Palmer

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It was on November 13, 1888 — after 47 years of marriage to the Rev. Benjamin Morgan Palmer — Mrs. Mary Augusta Palmer entered into her eternal glory. The grief that her husband endured was tremendous. Among the many who wrote letters of condolence to him was the Rev. Theodore Ledyard Cuyler of Brooklyn, New York.

In his autobiography, Recollections of a Long Life, pp. 221-221 — which, while writing, he received news of the death of Rev. Palmer — he had this to say:

As my readers may all know, Dr. Palmer, through the Civil War, was a most ardent Secessionist, and as honestly so as I was a Unionist….Soon after my visit to New Orleans, my old friend was sorely bereaved by the death of his wife. I wrote him a letter of condolence, and his reply was, for sweetness and sublimity, worthy of Samuel Rutherford or Richard Baxter. As both husband and wife are now reunited I venture to publish a portion of this wonderful letter — both as a message of consolation to others under a similar bereavement and a s tribute to the great loving heart of Benjamin M. Palmer.

First, we turn to Rev. Cuyler’s letter, which can be read in Thomas C. Johnson, The Life and Letters of Benjamin Morgan Palmer, pp. 529-530:

176 South Oxford Street, Brooklyn, December 21, 1888

My Dear Dr. Palmer: I have just received, through the relatives of Mrs. Professor Rogers, the confirmation of the report that your beloved wife had been taken home to her rest and her reward. When I heard the report a fortnight ago I did not credit it — as I had seen no notice of it in the Presbyterian.

To you — my beloved brother! who know so well where the ‘Eternal Refuge’ is, and how to find the ‘Everlasting Arms,’ I need send no fraternal counsels. But my own dear wife joins me in heart-felt sympathy and our sincerest condolence.

I have known what it was to give up beautiful and beloved children — but the trial of all trials has been spared me; and to you the journey of your remaining days will be with these words on your lips.

‘Each moment is a swift degree
And every hour a step towards Thee.’

May the richest and sweetest spiritual blessings fill your soul — ever ‘unto all the fullness of God!’ And your ministry be most abundant in the Lord!

Please present our kind regards to your children and believe

Ever yours in Christ Jesus,
Theo. L. Cuyler

For Rev. Palmer’s letter in reply, we may turn to Rev. Cuyler’s autobiography again, pp. 222-223, or Johnson’s biography, pp. 526-527:

Truly my sorrow is a sorrow wholly by itself. What is to be done with a love which belongs only to one, when that one is gone and cannot take it up? It cannot perish, for it has become a part of my own being. What shall we do with a lost love which wanders like a ghost through all the chambers of the soul only to feel how empty they are? I have about me, blessed be God! a dear daughter and grand-children; but I cannot divide this love among them, for it is incapable of distribution. What remains but to send it upward until it finds her to whom it belongs by right of concentration through more than forty years?

I will not speak, my brother, of my pain — let that be; it is the discipline of love, having its fruit in what is to be. But I will tell you how a gracious Father fills this cloud with Himself — and covering me in it, takes me into His pavilion. It is not what I would have chosen; but in this dark cloud I know better what it is to be alone with Him; and how it is best sometimes to put out the earthly lights, that even the sweetest earthly love may not come between Him and me. It is the old experience of love breaking through the darkness as it did long ago through the terrors of Sinai and the more appalling gloom of Calvary. I have this to thank Him for, the greatest of all His mercies, and then for this that He gave her to me so long. The memories of almost half a century encircle me as a rainbow. I can feed upon them through the remainder of a short, sad life, and after that can carry them up to heaven with me and pour them into song forever. If the strings of the harp are being stretched into a greater tension, it is that the praise may hereafter rise to higher and sweeter notes before His throne — as we bow together there.

How poignant these words are, by he who was encircled by a rainbow, and what a tribute not only to the devotion of a husband, but also to the love of two precious saints. As Rev. Cuyler intended — who himself wrote God’s Light on Dark Clouds, after the loss of two infant children and a 22 year-old daughter, and many other words of comfort — may these words of wisdom and solace be an encouragement to others who have known grief and loss.

A remembrance of the genocide in Armenia from the perspective of American Presbyterian missionaries

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The Christian population was at the mercy of Turks and Kurds and Persians. Dr. Shedd hastened to the Russian Consulate and found it already dismantled and everybody getting ready to leave. It was evident there was no help from the Russians and taking leave of the Consul with the words, ''Panah ba Khuda,” ''Refuge with God," he returned to the city. — Mary Lewis Shedd, writing of her husband in the midst of events in Urmia, Persia (now Iran), on January 1, 1915, as the Armenian genocide was unfolding, in The Measure of a Man: The Life of William Ambrose Shedd, Missionary to Persia (1922), p. 141.

American Presbyterian missionaries to Persia were deeply affected by the events connected with the political situation resulting from World War I, including what has come to be known as the Armenian Genocide, a term first used officially today (April 24, 2021) by an American President, Joseph Biden, on Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day.

The story is told from the perspective of missionaries on the ground, such as William Ambrose Shedd and his wife Mary Lewis Shedd, and others including Mary A. Schauffler Labaree Platt, author of The War Journal of a Missionary in Persia (1915), and Frederick G. Coan, author of Yesterdays in Persia and Kurdistan (1939) [not yet available on Log College Press, but hopefully soon]. Coan’s 1918 account of some aspects of the genocide is particularly gripping.

Simonetta Carr published a very helpful sketch last year of these tragic events as they relate to the Shedds which is available here. The atrocities are heart-breaking to read about. It is estimated that around 1 million Armenians were slaughtered. Many American Presbyterians were eyewitnesses to the horrors of massacre and war resulting in the shedding of much innocent blood. It was a time of grief and sadness, but also a time of courage and of prayer in the midst of suffering. But we do well to harken to the words (which Simonetta has highlighted, found in Mary L. Shedd, The Measure of a Man: The Life of William Ambrose Shedd, Missionary to Persia (1922), p. 280) of Rev. Shedd, who wrote in 1916:

It lies with us to see that the blood shed and the suffering endured are not in vain. May God grant and may we who know so well the wrongs that have been borne, so labor that the cause of these wrongs be removed. That will be done when Christ rules in the hearts of those who profess His name and is acknowledged by all, not merely as a great prophet but as the Saviour for Whose coming prophecy prepared the way, Who is the fulfillment of revelation, and in Whom human destiny will find its goal.

19th century American Presbyterians on recognizing loved ones in heaven

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Have you ever considered the question of whether we will recognize loved ones in heaven? It is a topic considered and discussed specifically in larger works by English Puritans (such as Thomas Watson and Richard Baxter), and by Dutch Puritans (such as Wilhelmus à Brakel) - but at least three American Presbyterians have written full-length books on the subject. And among the resources available at Log College Press is an article by J. Gray McAllister.

Aikman, William, Heavenly Recognitions Title Page cropped.jpg

If you have an interest in this issue, be sure to check out the works referenced above. According to the light given to us from Scripture, there is hope and comfort in the doctrine that the saints will know one another in heaven.

The Almond Tree in Blossom: A Tribute to the Godly Father of T. De Witt Talmage

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Thomas De Witt Talmage — “the American Spurgeon,” one of the most famous preachers in American history — was the youngest son of David T. and Catherine “Catey” Van Nest Talmage. Born in New Jersey, where his father would serve in the state legislature, the son was raised in the Reformed Church (David served as a deacon in the First Church of Raritan), and that is where Thomas began his ministry before being called to serve in the Presbyterian Church.

Engraving of the 1833 Leonid Meteor Shower by Adolf Vollmy (1889), based on the painting by Karl Jauslin.

Engraving of the 1833 Leonid Meteor Shower by Adolf Vollmy (1889), based on the painting by Karl Jauslin.

Thomas once gave an account of his father’s experience traveling between work and home of an event that astronomers still talk about today. The horse that David Talmage was riding was named “Star.”

My father was on the turnpike road between Trenton and Bound Brook, coming through the night from Trenton, where he was serving the State, to his home, where there was sickness. I have often heard him tell about it. It was the night of the 12th and the morning of the 13th of November, 1833. The sky was cloudless and the air clear. Suddenly the heavens became a scene never to be forgotten. From the constellation Leo meteors began to shoot out in all directions. For the two hours between four and six in the morning it was estimated that a thousand meteors a minute flashed and expired. It grew lighter than noon-day. Through the upper air shot arrows of fire! Balls of fire! Trails of fire! Showers of fire! Some the appearances were larger than the full moon. All around the heavens explosion followed explosion. Sounds as well as sights! The air filled with an uproar. All the luminaries of the sky seemed to have received marching orders. The ether was ribbed and interlaced and garlanded with meteoric display. From horizon to horizon everything was in combustion and conflagration. The spectacle ceased not until the rising sun of the November morning eclipsed it, and the whole American nation sat down exhausted with the agitations of a night to be memorable until the earth itself shall become a falling star. The Bible closes with such a scene of falling lights — not only fidgety meteors, but grave old stars. St. John saw it in prospect and wrote: ‘The stars of heaven fell unto the earth even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs when she is shaken of a mighty wind.’ What a time there will be when worlds drop! Rain of planets! Gravitation letting loose her grip on worlds! Constellations falling apart and galaxies dissolved!

David Talmage also served as sheriff, and worked to promote education in New Jersey. He lived a long and fruitful life (1783-1865). When he died, Thomas delivered a commemorative sermon titled “The Beauty of Old Age,” based on Ecclesiastes 12:5: “The almond tree shall flourish.”

An almond tree in blossom.

An almond tree in blossom.

Thomas spoke of how his father shined so brightly even in old age. Even as the almond tree blossoming is a picture of the same.

Finally, I notice that in my father’s old age was to be seen the beauty of Christian activity.

He had not retired from the field. He had been busy so long, you could not expect him idle now. The faith I have described was not an idle expectation that sits with its hands in its pocket idly waiting, but a feeling which gather up all the resources of the soul, and hurls them upon one grand design. He was among the first who toiled in Sabbath-schools and never failed to speak praise of these institutions. No storm or darkness ever kept him away from prayer-meeting. In the neighbourhood where he lived, for years he held a devotional meeting. Oftentimes the only praying-man present before a handful of attendants, he would give out the hymn, read the lines, conduct the music, and pray. Then read the Scriptures and pray again. Then lead forth in the Doxology with an enthusiasm as if there were a thousand people present, and all the Church members had been doing their duty. He went forth visiting the sick, burying the dead, collecting alms for the poor, inviting the ministers of religion to his household, in which there was, as in the house of Shunem, a little room over the wall, with bed and candlestick for any passing Elisha. He never shuddered at the sight of a subscription-paper, and not a single great cause of benevolence has arisen within the last half-century which he did not bless with his beneficence. Oh! this was not a barren almond-tree that blossomed. His charity was not like the bursting of the bud of a famous tree in the South, that fills the whole forest with its racket, nor was it a clumsy thing, like the fruit in some tropical clime, that crashes down, almost knocking the life out of those who gather it, for in his case the right hand knew not what the left hand did. The churches of God, in whose service he toiled, have arisen as one man to declare his faithfulness and to mourn their loss. He stood in the front of the holy war, and the courage which never trembled or winced in the presence of temporal danger induced him to dare all things for God. In church matters he was not afraid to be shot at. Ordained, not by the laying on of human hands, but by the imposition of a Saviour’s love, he preached by his life, in official position, and legislative hall, and commercial circles, a practical Christianity. He showed that there was a such a thing as honesty in politics. He slandered no party, stuffed no ballot-box, forged no naturalization papers, intoxicated no voters, told no lies, surrendered no principle, countenanced no demagogueism. He called things by their rightful names; and what others styled prevarication, exaggeration, misstatement, or hyperbole, he called a lie. Though he was far from being undecided in his views, and never professed neutrality, or had any consort with those miserable men who boast how well they can walk on both sides of a dividing-line and be on neither, yet even in the excitements of election canvass, when his name was hotly discussed in public journals, I do not think his integrity was ever assaulted. Started every morning with a chapter of the Bible, and his whole family around him on their knees, he forgot not, in the excitement of the world, that he had a God to serve and a heaven to win. The morning prayer came up on one side of the day, and the evening prayer on the other side, and joined each other in an arch above his head, under the shadow of which he walked all the day. The Sabbath worship extended into Monday’s conversation, and Tuesday’s bargain, and Wednesday’s mirthfulness, and Thursday’s controversy, and Friday’s sociality, and Saturday’s calculation.

Through how many thrilling scenes he had passed! He stood, at Morristown, in the choir that chanted when George Washington was buried; talked with young men whose grandfathers he had held on his knee; watched the progress of John Adam’s administration; denounced, at the time, Aaron Burr’s infamy; heard the guns that celebrated the New Orlean’s victory; voted against Jackson, but lived long enough to wish we had one just like him; remembered when the first steamer struck the North River with its wheel buckets; flushed with excitement in the time of National Banks and Sub-Treasury; was startled at the birth of telegraphy; saw the United States grow from a speck on the world’s map, till all nations dip their flag at our passing merchantmen, and our “national airs” have been heard on the steeps of the Himalayas; was born while the revolutionary cannon were coming home from Yorktown, and lived to hear the tramp of troops returning from the war of the great Rebellion; lived to speak the names of eighty children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Nearly all his contemporaries gone! Aged Wilberforce said that sailors drink to “friends astern” until half way over sea, and then drink to “friends ahead.” With him it had for a long time been “friends ahead.” So also with my father. Long and varied pilgrimage! Nothing but sovereign grace could have kept him true, earnest, useful and Christian through so many exciting scenes.

He worked unweariedly from the sunrise of youth to the sunset of old age, and then in the sweet nightfall of death, lighted by the starry promises, went home, taking his sheaves with him. Mounting from earthly to heavenly service, I doubt not there were a great multitude that thronged heaven’s gate to hail him into the skies — those whose sorrows he has appeased, whose burdens he had lifted, whose guilty souls he had pointed to a pardoning God, whose dying moments he had cheered, whose ascending spirits he had helped up on the wings of sacred music. I should like to have heard that long, loud, triumphant shout, of heaven’s welcome. I think that the harps throbbed with another thrill, and the hills quaked with a mightier hallelujah. Hall, ransomed soul! thy race run — thy toil ended. Hail to the coronation!

Like an almond tree in blossom — which does so in winter, as Thomas notes (see “The Almond-Tree in Blossom” in his 1872 Sermons) — David Talmage served God well in old age, and the tribute that his son left for him is an encouragement to others, young and old, that one can hold on the starry promises, and shine all the brighter, not only in the noon-day of life, but also towards the end our days, even in the darkest of nights.

B.B. Warfield entered into glory 100 years ago today

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On February 16, 1921, B.B. Warfield, one of the most respected and prolific Reformed theologians in history, passed away in Princeton, New Jersey — an event witnessed personally by J.G. Vos, son of Geerhardus Vos — after previously experiencing angina pectoris.

Dr. C.W. Hodge, Jr. (who would go to assist in the publication of Warfield Works) wrote soon after:

In the death of Dr. Warfield on Feb. 16 Princeton University has lost one of its most distinguished alumni, and Princeton Theological Seminary has suffered an irreparable loss. Dr. Warfield not only occupies a place with the greatest men who have taught in Princeton Seminary, he was probably the greatest living theologian holding the Reformed Faith. With the late Dr. Kuyper of Amsterdam and Dr. Kuyper’s successor, Dr. Bavinck, Dr. Warfield was recognized as a leading expounder and defender of Calvinistic or Augustinian theology. The whole Christian Church will mourn his loss as one of the great leaders in religious thought.

Dr. Francis Landey Patton, in his memorial address for Warfield, said:

Princeton Theological Seminary is walking today in the shadow of an eclipse which in various degrees of visibility has been observed, I doubt not, throughout the greater part of the Christian world. Men may agree with Dr. Warfield or they may differ from him, but they must recognize his unswerving fidelity to what he believed to be the truth. Students of theology in whatever Christian communions they may be found must recognize him as an earnest coworker in defending the authority and contents of the New Testament and in vindicating the central doctrines of our common Christianity. Nothing but ignorance of his exact scholarship, wide learning, varied writings, and the masterly way in which he did his work should prevent them from uniting with us today in the statement that a prince and a great man has fallen in Israel.

Well may it be said that today we remember “a prince and a great man in Israel” who entered glory exactly one century ago. The life and legacy of B.B. Warfield have had a profoundly enduring impact on the Christian Church. We continue to add to his page, with over 200 of his published writings available to read at Log College Press. We invited you to take time to reflect on the life of this great theologian, and learn more about him, here.

Uncle Jack's martyrdom: "I am not afraid"

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When John Walker Vinson arrived as a Southern Presbyterian missionary at Sutsein, North Kiangsu, China on February 4, 1907, he soon met a young lady already stationed there, Miss Jeanie deForest Junkin, daughter of Rev. Ebenezer Dickey Junkin and grand-daughter of Rev. George Junkin. He would come to be affectionately known to younger missionaries as “Uncle Jack,” but meanwhile was immediately smitten by the sight of this young lady, who became his wife a year later. They had six children, but only three survived to adulthood. Both Jack and Jeanie experienced severe health problems, and in 1923, Jeanie passed away soon after giving birth to a daughter.

Some years later, Jack, following an operation in Shanghai, nevertheless made a 30-mile trip from his station at Haizhou to the little country town of Yang- Djia-Gee, where he often ministered to the saints who lived there, some of whom he had baptized previously. While he was staying at the Christian Chapel there, a bandit army 600-strong arrived, captured many of the town’s inhabitants, and Jack as well. After learning what had happened, government forces were dispatched to deal with the crisis.

E.H. Hamilton, in his account of Vinson’s life and death, describes what happened next:

The bandit chief, realizing the perilous situation, came to Mr. Vinson, and asked him, “Do you want to go free?”

“Certainly,” came the reply.

“All right. If you will write a letter to the general of that army, and get him to withdraw his troops, I will let you go free,” said the bandit chief.

“Will you also release all these Chinese captives you are holding?” the missionary asked.

“Certainly not,” answered the bandit chief.

“Then neither will I go free,” said Mr. Vinson; and although the bandit chief was livid with rage, and vehement in his threats, the frail man before him was adamant.

During the night, the bandits, who were surrounded, attempted to break out and escape. They incurred heavy losses, and around 125 of the 150 prisoners managed to escape. Because of his condition, Jack was not able to escape, nor was he able to walk as the bandits fled the area with him and the other remaining captives. Hamilton continues:

A little girl, the daughter of a Chinese evangelist, was one of the captives of the bandits. The child afterward told how she had seen and heard a bandit trying to intimidate Mr. Vinson. She said the bandit pointed a gun at Mr. Vinson’s head, and said, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“No, I am not afraid,” came the answer.

And again, “I’m going to kill you. Aren’t you afraid?”

Once more the man of God replied, “NO, I AM NOT AFRAID. If you kill me, I will go right to Heaven.”

It was then that Jack was shot and killed, and beheaded.

Hamilton writes that “In his death Jack Vinson preached to more people than he ever had at one time in his life.” He also proposes to ask the reader a question, one that in various forms many believers have faced through the ages.

What would you do if you were held captive by a gang of ruthless bandits, and one of them came up to you— while your hands were bound—and pointing a pistol at your head, said, “I’m going to kill you. Aren’t you afraid?”

That was not a hypothetical question to Jack Vinson. It was grim reality, in North Kiangsu, China, November 2nd, 1931. What he did, and the reply he made, have both thrilled and strengthened the people of God in many lands. And by his answer he has earned a place alongside:

Queen Esther — “If I perish, I perish.”

Nehemiah — “Should such a one as I flee?”

Paul — “What are you doing weeping and breaking my heart? For I am ready not only to be imprisoned, but even to die at Jerusalem for the Name of the Lord Jesus.” (Acts 21:13. RSV)

Martin Luther — “Though every tile on every roof in Worms be a demon, yet will I go there.”

And David Livingstone — “Who am I that I should fear? Nay, verily, I will take my bearings tonight, though they be my last.”

For Jack Vinson looked his tormenter in the eye, and calmly answered, “No, I am not afraid. If you kill me, I will go right to heaven.”

A poem that Hamilton wrote within minutes of hearing the news of the tragic but glorious death of his friend, Jack, reminds us of the saying of Ulrich Zwingli (who died in battle): “Not to fear is the armor.”

Afraid? Of what?
To feel the spirit’s glad release?
To pass from pain to perfect peace.
The strife and strain of life to cease?
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of what?
Afraid to see the Saviour’s face,
To hear His welcome, and to trace
The glory gleam from wounds of grace?
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of what?
A flash—a crash—a pierced heart;
Darkness—light—Oh, Heaven’s art!
A wound of His a counterpart!
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of what?
To enter into Heaven's rest,
And yet to serve the Master blest,
From service good to service best?
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of what?
To do by death what life could not:
Baptize with blood a stony plot,
Till souls shall blossom from the spot?
Afraid—of that?

In times of trial, we are thankful for the testimonies of saints who have faced life-or-death questions before and honored Christ with all of their being to receive an eternal reward. Read the full story of Vinson’s life here.

Presbyterians Lost in the Woods

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To be lost in the woods at night is a fearful thing — much more so perhaps in the age before GPS and cell phones. Imagine what it was like for an 18th century Presbyterian missionary traveling on horseback through unfamiliar places in the dark without road signs. Then take note of not only the human fears that would be experienced, but also the spiritual lessons gleaned.

David Brainerd, missionary to the Native Americans, wrote in his journal on November 22, 1744:

Thursday, Nov. 22. Came on my way from Rockciticus to Delaware River. Was very much disordered with a cold and pain in my head. About 6 at Night, I lost my way in the wilderness, and wandered over rocks and mountains, down hideous steeps, thro' swamps, and most dreadful and dangerous places; and the night being dark, so that few stars could be seen, I was greatly exposed; was much pinch’d with cold, and distressed with an extreme pain in my head, attended with sickness at my stomach; so that every step I took was distressing to me. I had little hope for several hours together, but that I must lie out in the woods all night, in this distressed case. But about 9 o'clock, I found a house, thro' the abundant goodness of God, and was kindly entertained. Thus I have frequently been exposed, & sometimes lain out the whole night: but God has hitherto preserved me; and blessed be his name. Such fatigues and hardships as these serve to wean me more from the earth; and, I trust, will make heaven the sweeter. Formerly, when I was thus exposed to cold, rain, &c. I was ready to please myself with the thoughts of enjoying a comfortable house, a warm fire, and other outward comforts; but now these have less place in my heart (thro' the Grace of God) and my eye is more to God for comfort. In this world I expect tribulation; and it does not now, as formerly, appear strange to me; I don't in such seasons of difficulty flatter myself that it will be better hereafter; but rather think, how much worse it might be; how much greater trials others of God's children have endured; and how much greater are yet perhaps reserved for me. Blessed be God, that he makes the thoughts of my journey's end and of my dissolution a great comfort to me, under my sharpest trial; & scarce ever lets these thoughts be attended with terror or melancholy; but they are attended frequently with great joy.

Another example comes from the pen of Samuel Davies, who ministered in Virginia. His poetic composition (published in 1750) is introduced thus:

The following verses were composed by a pious clergyman in Virginia, who preaches to seven congregations, the nearest of which meets at the distance of five miles from his house, as he was returning home in a very gloomy and rainy night.

The untitled poem follows:

Some, heavenly pensive contemplation, come,
Possess my soul, and solemn thoughts inspire.
The sacred hours, that with too swift a wing
Incessant hurry by, nor quite elapsed,
Demand a serious close. Then be my soul
Sedate and solemn, as this gloom of night,
That thickens round me. Free from care, composed
Be all my soul, as this dread solitude,
Through which with gloomy joy I make my way.
Above these clouds, above the spacious sky,
In whose vast arch these cloudy oceans roll,
Dispensing fatness to the world below;
There dwells THE MAJESTY whose single hand
Props universal nature, and who deals
His liberal blessings to this little globe,
The residence of worms; where Adam’s sons,
Thoughtless of him, who taught their souls to think,
Ramble in vain pursuits. The hosts of heaven,
Cherubs and Seraphs, potentates and thrones,
Arrayed in glorious light, hover on wing
Before his throne, and wait his sovereign nod:
With active zeal, with sacred rapture fired,
To his extensive empire’s utmost bound
They bear his orders, and his charge perform.
Yet He, even He, (ye ministers of flame,
Admire the condescension and the grace!)
Employs a mortal formed of meanest clay,
Debased by sin, whose best desert is hell;
Employs him to proclaim a SAVIOUR’S name,
And offer pardon to a rebel world.
Enjoyed the honour of his advocate:
Immortal souls, of more transcendent worth
Than ophir, or Peru’s exhaustless mines,
Are trusted to my care. Important trust!
What if some wretched soul, (tremendous thought!)
Once favoured with the gospel’s joyful sound,
Now lost, forever lost through my neglect,
In dire infernal glooms, with flaming tongue,
Be heaping execrations on my head,
Whilst here secure I dream my life away!
What if some ghost, cut off from life and hope,
With fierce despairing eyes up-turned to heaven,
That wildly stare, and witness horrors huge,
Be roaring horrid, “Lord, avenge my blood
On that unpitying wretch, who saw me run
With full career the dire enchanting road
To these devouring flames, yet warned me not,
Or faintly warned me; and with languid tone,
And cool harangue, denounced eternal fire,
And wrath divine?” At the dread shocking thought
My spirit shudders, all my inmost soul
Trembles and shrinks. Sure, if the plaintive cries
Of spirits reprobate can reach the ear
Of their great judge, they must be cries like these.
But if the meanest of the happy choir,
That with eternal symphonies surround
The heavenly throne, can stand, and thus declare,
”I owe it to his care that I am here,
Next to Almighty Grace: His faithful hand,
Regardless of the frowns he might incur,
Snatched me, reluctant, from approaching flames,
Ready to catch, and burn unquenchable:
May richest grace reward his pious zeal
With some bright mansion in this world of bliss.”
Transporting thought! Then blessed be the hand
That formed my elemental clay to man,
And still supports me. ‘Tis worthwhile to live,
If I may live to purposes so great.
Awake my dormant zeal! Forever flame
With generous ardors for immortal souls;
And may my head, and tongue, and heart and all,
Spend and be spent in service so divine.

Each made it home safely. And they re-learned reliance upon the God who cares for servants who are seeking to stay upon the right path. A lesson for us today - to be lost in the woods is not necessarily to stray from His path for us - we may still be guided to our blessed journey’s end (Ps. 48:14). As has been said beautifully before, not all who wander are lost.

200 Years Ago Sylvester Larned Entered into Glory

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Born on the same day that he entered into glory — Sylvester Larned was born on August 31, 1796 in Pittsfield, Massachusetts and died on August 31, 1820 in New Orleans, Louisiana.

Trained at Andover and Princeton for the ministry, and ordained in 1817, Larned was appointed as a missionary to the “Old Southwest.” The city of New Orleans captured his heart, and in 1818, when he arrived, there was very limited knowledge of the gospel in this mostly Roman Catholic territory. He coordinated outreach efforts for a time with the local Episcopalian minister (who, after his death, presided over his funeral). The cornerstone for the First Presbyterian Church was laid on January 8, 1819 and was dedicated on July 4, 1819. Rev. Larned’s ministry to the people of New Orleans lasted but a short while before he succumbed to yellow fever at the age of 24. He was “the first pastor of the first Presbyterian church in New Orleans,” and we have highlighted his love for the city as reflected in prayer previously. Today, we recall the life and death of a young man who gave his all in the service of Christ for the gospel, and the fact that he entered into glory 200 years ago today.

For more details on life and ministry, see his biography by R.R. Gurley, along with sermons, here.

Get to know Nathaniel S. McFetridge

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Having benefited over the years from a little book titled Calvinism in HistoryLoraine Boettner spoke highly of it in his own classic The Reformed Doctrine of Predestination — by Nathaniel Smyth McFetridge, this writer had little information at first about the author and was curious for more. From a combination of sources, we have gleaned details about this fascinating Presbyterian minister who died quite young.

Wayne Sparkman at the PCA Historical Center wrote a biographical sketch, which provides very helpful information, including a partial bibliography. Other information has been assembled from ecclesiastical and genealogical records and publications from colleges with which he was associated. There is much more that we wish we had — for example, a photograph, and a few more of his known published writings. But we have discovered where he was laid to rest, among other details of interest. It is hoped that we will learn more over time, but below are some fresh brush strokes which will attempt to paint in some measure the picture of his life, and to supplement material that Dr. Sparkman has previously published.

McFetridge was born in Ardina, Dunboe Parish, County Derry, Northern Ireland on August 4, 1842. His family came to America when he was but a child, and they settled in Catasauqua, Pennsylvania. He studied at Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania, and retained ties to the school after he graduated in 1864. It was in that year that his prize-winning essay on the Prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales was published. He split the Fowler Prize with another student (who won $20, while he won $10) for his introductory study of the great classic. Recently, this writer obtained a copy and uploaded pictures of the text for readers who may wish to read young McFetridge’s insights into Chaucer.

Our author tells us in the preface to Calvinism in History that he benefited greatly in his later studies at Western Theological Seminary in Pittsburgh under A.A. Hodge, which he regarded as one of the greatest blessings of his life. McFetridge graduated from seminary in 1867 and was ordained into the ministry by the Presbytery of Erie (PCUSA) soon after, being installed the following year as pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Oil City, Pennsylvania. Married in 1868 to Jane Sutton, the McFetridges had four daughters and one son. He wrote to the Lafayette Monthly in March 1872 that he contemplated leaving the Oil City pastorate, but was persuaded to stay. In 1874, however, he transferred his credentials to the Presbytery of Philadelphia, North and became pastor of the Wakefield Presbyterian Church of Germantown, a neighborhood in northwestern Philadelphia. Dr. William C. Cattell, President of Lafayette College, gave the charge to the pastor on December 10, 1874.

Regarding his ties to Lafayette, it was reported in the July 1, 1871 Lafayette Monthly that Rev. McFetridge read a poem of his own composition titled “Peace” and offered the closing prayer at Alumni Society meeting held the day before commencement exercises. A hymn composed by McFetridge was published in January 1873 Lafayette Monthly titled “Jesus is Born.” The same periodical reported on January 1, 1879 that McFetridge presided over an alumni dinner, “with a quiet dignity and grace becoming the occasion, and introduced the speakers in a very happy manner,” with Dr. Cattell sitting at his right hand. In 1879, after the death of William Adamson, who served on the Lafayette Board of Trustees, Rev. McFetridge delivered a commemorative sermon. The February 1, 1880 Lafayette Journal informed its readers that McFetridge was recently elected to fill the vacant seat on the Board of Trustees, and also mentions that in 1878 he delivered the annual sermon before the Brainerd Society and the Christian Brotherhood.

In February 1881, McFetridge was seriously injured in a train accident, an event alluded to in the July 1, 1881 Lafayette Journal’s description of commencement exercises at which he was asked to speak but declined due to his injuries. He was spoken of as the man “whom steam engines can not crush.” He did pronounce the benediction at an oratorical contest as reported in the March 1, 1883 Lafayette Journal. The December 1883 Lafayette College Journal published a dispatch by McFetridge which reported on the departure from New York of Dr. Cattell and his family on board the steamship SS Servia bound for Liverpool, England. The warmth of his affection for Lafayette’s President is most apparent in his praise of the man. McFetridge’s Calvinism in History — which originated in lectures delivered at Wakefield Presbyterian Church in 1881 and which was published in 1882 — is dedicated to Cattell.

On the occasion of Martin Luther’s four hundredth birthday, in 1883, at the Presbyterian Church in Abington, Pennsylvania, Rev. McFetridge, along with Robert Ellis Thompson, gave an address in commemoration of “The Dear Man of God: Doctor Martin Luther of Blessed Memory.”

After eleven years at Wakefield, McFetridge resigned from his pastorate (due to his impaired health, we are told by Francis B. Reeves in his historical sketch of Wakefield Presbyterian Church) and was elected in early 1885 to fill the position of chair of Greek, Anglo-Saxon and Modern Languages at Macalester College in Minnesota, and had joined the faculty there by the autumn of that year.

An 1887 memorial tribute by Macalester College informed its readers that after a brief but much beloved tenure, Rev. McFetridge entered into glory on December 3, 1886 at the age of 44. It is thought that the injuries suffered from the train accident several years before they took their final toll on his body. Although he died in St. Paul, Minnesota, he was buried at the Shenango Valley Cemetery in Greenville, Pennsylvania, where his wife and at least two daughters were later laid to rest as well. A memorial window at Wakfield Presbyterian Church was given by his wife (where also artwork by a Japanese student who once lived with the McFetridges was presented). As described by his colleagues at Macalester, he was an inspiration as a teacher, minister of the gospel and friend:

As members of the Faculty, we were strangers when we met; but very soon our departed brother won the esteem and confidence of us all. No less did he win that of the students. As a professor, he was scholarly. careful and diligent in his work. He had the aptitude for teaching in a high degree. He exacted careful and diligent work from the students. Though a constant sufferer, he did not spare himself, and he had small patience with idleness and inattention on the part of any in his classes. When he led the college in morning prayers, his confessions of human frailty and sin, and his pleadings with our Heavenly Father for grace and strength to bear us through the duties of the day, were peculiarly touching.

As a member of the Faculty, he was prudent in counsel, firm in the maintenance of right, faithful to the best interests of the College, and courteous to his brethren.

As a preacher, he was remarkably clear in exposition and impressive in manner. He delighted especially in commending the love, the patience and the faithfulness of Christ, and was never happier than when so engaged.

He was a man of sprightly temperament, of genial and kindly disposition. His intellect was fine, his culture high, his views broad, and his spirit catholic. He was eminently patient in suffering and we who never saw him free from it, know how his brightness and hopefulness and faithfulness in the midst of it, enforced the lesson of Christian joy in submission to the Father's will, with "patient continuance in well-doing," upon all about him.

The writings of Nathaniel S. McFetridge that we have assembled thus far are available to read at his page here. His enduring Calvinism in History is there to read, along with a few other writings referenced above. We hope to add more eventually. From these and other materials we have gleaned that he was a well-respected, indeed beloved, pastor, teacher, friend and family man. Although details of his life are fewer than we would wish, we have sketched some aspects which reveal him to be a poet, a correspondent, a loyal college alumni, and a scholar. He was a man of humility too, and who looked to Christ in the midst of his personal physical suffering; and all of these qualities are evident in his writings and in the testimonials about him by others. He was a candle that burned brightly and briefly, yet the illumination of his life and legacy continues to shine.

The Value of Life: Testimony From Three Centuries

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If ever a culture needed to hear a message about the value of human life, our nihilistic 21st century America would be at the top of the list. Today’s post constitutes a witness from the past three centuries of American Presbyterian sermons and essays on the topic.

18th Century - Hugh Knox (1733-1790), “The Value and Importance of a Child,” Essay 58 in The Moral and Religious Miscellany; or, Sixty-One Aphoretical Essays, on Some of the Most Important Christian Doctrines and Virtues (1775):

The moment in which a rational, immortal spirit animates a human foetus, a spark is kindled which shall never be extinguished. The materiąl sun will grow old, wax dim with years, and be probably put out as a lamp that burneth; the stars shall fall from their orbits, and be covered with darkness; but this breath of the Almighty, this intellectual spark once kindled up in the moral world, ſhall burn on with undiminiſhed and ever increasing lustre, as long as God himself endures.

The birth of a child we deem to be but a trifling event, and look with indifference, perhaps with contempt, on the little helpless stranger. But if we viewed it with the penetrating eye of reason; if we considered it as emerging from eternal night into life immortal; — as an heir of worlds unknown, and a candidate for an everlasting state; — as a glimmering spark of being, just struck from nothing by the all-creating rock, which must burn and flame on to eternity, when suns and stars have returned to their native darkness or non-entity; — which must survive the funeral of nature, and live through the rounds of endless ages; which must either rise from glory to glory, ascending perfection’s scale by endless gradations, or sink deeper and deeper into the bottomless abyss of misery, and to which its immortality must either prove an unsufferable curse, — or a blessing inconceivable, according to the manner in which it shall have acquitted itself in its present probationary state — we shall clearly discern, that the value and importance of a human infant can scarcely be computed.

19th Century - Henry Augustus Boardman (1808-1880), The Low Value Set Upon Human Life in the United States: A Discourse Delivered on Thanksgiving-Day, November 24th, 1853 (1853):

It is impossible to frame any suitable conception of the value of life , or of the criminality of abridging its duration , without viewing man as an immortal being. The moment this idea is admitted into the inquiry, it overshadows everything else. The pains of dissolution, the pang of parting, the blighted hopes, the sorrows of widowhood and orphanage, the destruction of the vital spark , and whatever of grief and woe we may be accustomed to associate with the name of death considered simply as a temporal event — all becomes insignificant when we think of its future issues. It is the dismission of an individual from time into eternity. It is the sending him to the bar of his Maker. It is a terminating of all his opportunities for repentance and reformation . He is, thenceforth , done with the Bible and the throne of grace , with Sabbaths and sermons, with offers of pardon and tenders of reconciliation , with the Saviour's invitations and the Spirit's strivings, — all these are finished . He goes to appear before the “ great white throne,” and to receive his award of everlasting life , or of shame and everlasting contempt.

There is nothing over which the Deity has reserved to himself a more implicit control than life and death. “The Lord killeth and maketh alive; he bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up.” “I kill and I make alive; I wound and I heal.” As He alone can give life, so no creature may take it away without His permission. The wilful destruction of it, He has not only forbidden in the decalogue, but marked with His special abhorrence, by requiring every murderer to be put to death. And, as if to set forth in a yet more emphatic way, His estimate of the sacredness of life, and of the enormity of extinguishing it, he required even the involuntary homicide, among the Hebrews, to be tried; and if proved innocent, he was still treated as a quasi-prisoner, and prohibited, on pain of death, from quitting the city of refuge during the life of the high-priest. If further proof were wanting of the value He sets upon life, it offers itself to us on every side, in the various and inexhaustible provision He has made for its nurture and protection; in the antidotes He has prepared to the diseases sin has introduced; and above all, in the infinite love He has displayed towards our race in sending His be loved Son into the world to redeem us.

These are all His mercies. We are responsible to Him for the use we make of them. It is for Him to say how long, and under what circumstances, we shall enjoy them. Upon our conduct here, “everlasting things” are suspended. This is our probation; heaven and hell hang upon it. Nor is this all. We are so implicated with one another, that we are all helping to determine each other's characters and destiny. Our life or death may seriously affect, for good or ill, the welfare of a nation, or the prosperity of the church. Nay, we are even allowed to say, that the glory of God Himself, the ever-blessed and incomprehensible Jehovah, may have some connexion with our longer or shorter continuance here.

20th Century - Theodore Ledyard Cuyler (1822-1909), The Value of Life (1908):

Life is God’s gift; your trust and mine. We are the trustees of the Giver, unto whom at last we shall render account for every thought, word and deed in the body.

In the first place, life, in its origin, is infinitely important. The birth of a babe is a mighty event. From the frequency of births, as well as the frequency of deaths, we are prone to set a very low estimate on the ushering into existence of an animate child, unless the child be born in a palace or a presidential mansion, or some other lofty station. Unless there be something extraordinary in the circumstances, we do not attach the importance we ought to the event itself. It is only noble birth, distinguished birth, that is chronicled in the journals or announced with salvos of artillery. I admit that the relations of a prince, of a president and statesman, are more important to their fellow men and touch them at more points than those of an obscure pauper; but when the events are weighed in the scales of eternity, the difference is scarcely perceptible. In the darkest hovel in Brooklyn, in the dingiest attic or cellar, or in any place in which a human being sees the first glimpse of light, the eye of the Omniscient beholds an occurrence of prodigious moment. A life is begun, a life that shall never end. A heart begins to throb that shall beat to the keenest delight or the acutest anguish. More than this — a soul commences a career that shall outlast the earth on which it moves. The soul enters upon an existence that shall be untouched by time, when the sun is extinguished like a taper in the sky, the moon blotted out, and the heavens have been rolled together as a vesture and changed forever.

What is the purpose of life? Is it advancement? Is it promotion? Is it merely the pursuit of happiness? Man was created to be happy, but to be more — to be holy. The wisdom of those Westminster fathers that gathered in the Jerusalem chamber, wrought it into the well-known phrase, “Man’s chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.” That is the double aim of life: duty first, then happiness as the consequence; to bring in revenues of honor to God, to build up His kingdom, spread His truth; to bring this whole world of His and lay it subject at the feet of the Son of God. That is the highest end and aim of existence, and every one here that has risen up to that purpose of life lives.

The truth spoken by these voices is timeless, just as every being made in the image of God is of eternal worth. May today’s generation give heed to these witnesses to the value and dignity of human life from centuries past.

Holiness and Health: Words of Wisdom from William Nevins

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William Nevins, whose ordination sermon was preached by Samuel Miller in 1820, died at a young age (37). In the last year of his life (and ministry as pastor of the Presbyterian Church in Baltimore), while battling illness, his diary records his thoughts on health matters. In his city, the cholera raging. But what mattered more to him was faithful service to the Lord. Hear his thoughts on health and holiness from his diary, letters and from his pulpit, extracted from his Select Remains, published after his death by William S. Plumer.

In one undated letter, Nevins writes:

If all my relatives were followers of the Lord, I should feel easy about them, though in the midst of pestilence. Death, even by the cholera, is gain to the Christian.

From his diary:

August 28, 1832. The cholera is raging in the midst of us, but praised be God, I and mine are spared, not for our deserts, but for his great mercies. I feared that when 1 should be called to visit a subject of this disease, I should be appalled at the prospect; but when the summons actually came, I was enabled to obey it without the smallest hesitation or trembling, and to determine at once to comply with every similar call in future, the which I have been aided to do, God gives his servants grace just when they want it; not in anticipation of their necessities. When I think of dying, I feel, if not an unpreparedness, yet an unwillingness to leave the world now, and an inability to exclaim, 'Oh death, where is thy sting?’ but I trust it would not be so, were I actually called to die. I am persuaded there is nothing which the grace of God cannot do for me.

November 20, 1832. On the 26th of September, I was taken ill of a bilious fever, by which I have been laid aside until now, and from which, I have not yet entirely recovered. What thanks do I not owe to my preserving God, that he spared me when so many others were taken! How gracious was he, when the pangs were upon me! But now, that they are removed, how soon I forget God! I am afraid my sickness has not been sanctified to me, I find the same wicked heart in me as ever. Oh how sinfully I live from day to-day! How I suffer little matters to disturb my peace and ruffle my temper, and lead me into sin! How the very minutiae of this world affect me! I am ashamed of the petty cares and anxieties of which I am the subject. I am careful and troubled about many things, and so neglect the one thing needful; and then how many fears I have, unworthy of a Christian. Oh for that perfect love which casts out fear; oh, to know that I am one to whom the gracious God says, ' fear thou not, for I am with thee; I am thy God.’

July 9, 1833. I have been reading Baxter on our unreasonable unwillingness to die, that we may possess the saint's rest. Oh that God would make me willing to do and suffer all his will, just because it is his will. Oh that he would deliver me from all fear of death. His grace is sufficient, and his word is given, and his promise is sure. I will trust him and not be afraid. I shall not be left. He will not disappoint my confidence in him.

August 17, 1833. I have about me a dread of disease and death, such as I was not wont to have before the pestilence came, and which is very unbecoming a Christian. Oh to be delivered from it. Oh for that love which casts out fear.

September 13, 1833. I cannot bear the idea of living along from day to day, unprofitably to myself and others, without making any progress in personal holiness, and without benefiting the souls of others. I desire this day to live usefully — to do something for the glory of God and the good of man, and I resolve that with the Lord's help I will.

September 26, 1833. I would not let this day pass, without noting it as the anniversary of my sickness. This day, one year, I was attacked by that illness, which brought me nearer the grave than I ever was before. But God mercifully spared me, and has lengthened out my term, while he has cut short that of others. Poor brother Fullerton is taken in the dawning of life and usefulness.

December 21, 1833. I thank the Lord for that calm and even and happy state of mind in which I have been for the last few days. May he continue and increase my peace, making it like a river, flowing in a constant, gentle and unrippled current, increasing daily in extent and depth, until it shall reach the interminable ocean of serenity. I feel as if God will revive us. Oh may he not be offended by any act or omission. May none of us grieve the good Spirit of the Lord.

January 30, 1834. Nothing gives me more pain than the fear that I am living to no purpose, neither growing in grace myself, nor promoting the salvation of others. Oh God, let it not be so. Make me useful. Let me not live in vain. " I desire to have these several things, viz.

1. In all I do, a single eye to the glory of God.

2. A uniform and deep sense of my entire dependance on God, especially for the success of my ministry.

3. I desire to feel continually the sweet and powerful constraining of a Saviour's love. I would feel him to be ever and very precious to me.

4. I would endure as seeing him who is invisible. 1 would feel continually, 'Thou God seest me.'

5. I desire to be delivered from all sin. I would be a partaker of the meekness and gentleness of Christ. I would be sincere, upright, true.

6. I desire to be able to say, 'Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none on earth I desire besides thee.' Oh to have such a love for God and such a delight in him.

7. I desire to be willing to die, whenever the Lord wills to take me. I want to be weaned from this world before I am taken from it. I would not be driven away. I would go willingly.

8. I desire to have no will of my own in any thing, but to say and feel always, ‘Thy will be done.’

February 3, 1834….I choose for my motto this, ‘To me to live is Christ.’

May 3, 1834. I returned yesterday from Philadelphia and New York, where, for three or four weeks, I have been for my health, which has failed me. The Lord has laid me aside from his active service, for how long 1 know not ; whether altogether, he knows. May his will be mine, and may they not merely accidentally coincide, but may his will be mine because it is his. On the first of May, in Philadelphia, I wrote as follows:

O Lord, let me have now, though all unworthy, a little sweet communion with thee: canst thou, with all thy care of worlds, attend to me? Thou canst, for even worlds are no cares to thee! And wilt thou? Wilt thou so condescend, not merely to such littleness, but to such guilt? O how unworthy I am of what I ask! I am convinced that no one is more unworthy than I am. How can any one be more unworthy ? If mercy were any thing merited, I should be sure of never receiving it. Oh how I spoil my actions by my motives ! My heart is not right even when my conduct is. Oh thou who ponderests hearts and weighest spirits, sanctify my motives. Make them such as thou wouldst have them.

May 6, 1834. I ask not, O Lord, that thy will may coincide with mine, but mine with thine. I am only in a very subordinate sense in the hands of physicians and other advisers. I am in the Lord’s hands. There I ought to be. There may I delight to be. O for confidence.

May 13, 1834. Will the Lord deign to restore my voice to me, and to allow me once more to preach Jesus? I am not needed; and I am unworthy. But may such he employs. I shall esteem it a great favor. I shall praise him forever for it. I am too fond of life and this world. Oh, I am too unwilling to die. I cannot say to death, ‘Where is thy sting?’ I would be weaned from earth and time. I would desire to depart and be with Christ. I would see and feel that to be far better. Oh for sweet and complete submission to the divine will.

May 20, 1834. Will the Lord dictate the means I should employ for the recovery of my health, and then bless those means. O may I love Jesus more before I preach him again, and have a clearer and more satisfactory experience of the work of grace on my own heart, that out of the abundance of the heart, my mouth may henceforth speak to sinners. I would be careful for nothing, but in every thing by prayer, &c. Phil, iv, 6. Then I shall enjoy that peace of God, which passeth all understanding.

May 24, 1834. How I am held in bondage by the fear of death ! O that Christ would deliver me ! It was one great purpose of his death, to deliver those who, through fear of death are, all their lifetime, subject to bondage. Strange that I should be afraid and unwilling to go to my Father, to my Saviour, to my home and inheritance. Ah, it is because of unbelief. Last night I waked up with a pain in my breast, and how unduly it alarmed me—how unmanly, above all, how unchristian are my fears ! O that God would say to me, ' fear thou not, for I am with thee ; be not dismayed, for I am thy God,' — that he would speak these words to my heart. O, I needed this affliction, and I ought not to desire its removal until it has answered the purpose for which it was sent. I have been an unfaithful minister. I wonder God should have borne with me so long. Wonderful is the patience of God ! To reflect on it, will be among the employments of eternity; — to contemplate and admire the long-suffering and forbearance of God ! How slow he is to anger!

My throat affection seems not so well for the last few days. But let not this distress me. I am in the best hands — in hands divine — in the very hands that were pierced for me, and from which no foreign power can pluck me. If I die, yet dying is not going out of those hands, or if it is, it is going from the hands to the bosom of God, — a gainful and blessed exchange. Will the Lord dictate what means I shall use for recovery, and bless those means, else the most wisely adapted will be of no avail.

June 1, 1834. Again, as last Sunday, I am detained from the house of God, and it is now more than two months since I preached. The Lord has some object in this affliction. May I not defeat it. O how strange it seems to me to have no voice to preach of Jesus. Shall I never again be permitted to tell sinners of him? Will the Lord counsel me in regard to going to Norfolk to-morrow. Let thy will be done. O Lord, thou canst make me well, and thou canst make me holy; speak but the word, and I shall be whole both in body and in soul. Thou art the physician of both. Thou alone canst mend thy own work. O for the privilege of preaching the gospel again! Lord sanctify this affliction to me. Help me to cast my burden on thee, and to make the best of every thing.

June 4, 1834. I am at Norfolk for the benefit of my health. How vain are all means without God’s blessing! And what slight remedies prove successful in his hands! May he bless the retirement this visit affords me to my soul! Ah, this is what is most out of order. I ask for health, but for grave I cry. Lord, hear my cry. I cannot move along without grace. Grace I ask, to be, and do, and suffer all though have me to. If Christ has no more work for me to do, how little he lets me off with; for how very little I have done for him. I have not been laborious for my Saviour; and much that I have seemed to do for him, I have reason to fear has been done for myself. Why should I not be willing to be released from further labor, if the Lord has no more for me to do. O, why so very reluctant to depart and be with Christ. Will the Lord be my wisdom and strength to-day.

June 20, 1834. I am in New York again for my health. I bless the Lord that I seem to be getting better….

I am in quest of health. How much more important to ‘follow holiness!’ I hope I desire the latter, the rather of the two — holiness, conformity, moral conformity to God, submission to his holy will.

July 11, 1834. I must record it to the praise and glory of God, that I feel better to-day than I have felt since I was taken sick. May I increase in holiness more rapidly than in health, being strengthened in the inner as well as outer man. O that God would give me the ‘earnest of the Spirit,’ that I also may be always confident, that in being absent from the body I shall be present with the Lord. I am persuaded God will be my counsellor.

It was in November 1834 that Nevins’ wife passed away and went to be with the Lord. It was nearly twelve years to the day after their wedding when she died of cholera. Six weeks later his mother-in-law also passed away. The grief, and submission to the divine will, expressed by Nevins in his diary is profound. But to keep with the particular theme of this post, we pass over this tremendous loss and resume our extracts, this time from a letter dated June 21, 1834:

Health is a precious blessing, but it is not the blessing of greatest price. Holiness is the inestimable pearl. What a wonderful book the Bible always is, but especially sometimes. How it speaks to the heart! It seems to be all alive!

After a partial recovery in the summer of 1834, Nevins’ health deteriorated especially after his wife’s death. In the spring of 1835, doctors sent him to Saint Croix in the West Indies (at that time owned by Denmark, now a part of the U.S. Virgin Islands) in hopes that the climate would benefit him. However, his body was in a long, slow decline from which he would not recover.

In September 1835, having returned to Baltimore, he made a substantial donation to the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. He told a friend, “There are one hundred dollars for the Board. It is, I suppose, the last donation I shall ever make to the cause of Christ. If you see any suitable way of saying it, I would like to have it known that the nearer I get to heaven, the dearer is the cause of missions to my heart.”

He died on September 14, 1835. His last words were: “Death — death, now, come Lord Jesus — dear Saviour.”

William and Martha Nevins are buried together at Westminster Burial Ground in Baltimore, Maryland.

William and Martha Nevins are buried together at Westminster Burial Ground in Baltimore, Maryland.

Most of his written legacy was published after his death, and his writings are indeed a treasure, some of which are still in print today, particularly, his Practical Thoughts and Thoughts on Popery. Read more about the man and his writings here, and consider his words — that health is a precious blessing, but holiness is an inestimable pearl.

These concluding thoughts come from an 1832 sermon which Nevins preached to his congregation in Baltimore while the cholera epidemic was raging.

There is a great deal of dying now. And it is apprehended by many that there will be more. Death is abroad. The insatiate archer has got a new arrow in his quiver, severer and sharper than any of the rest. A new terror clothes the brow of the king of terrors. The aged are sickening and dying, nor are the young men and maidens exempt. And it is appointed to us to die. We shall be sorry to part with any of you; but if you must go, we cannot feel indifferent as to how and where you go. There is a direction we would have you take, and a conveyance we would have you employ. If you must leave earth, let it be for heaven. If you must go, go by the safe way and regard your company. There is but one safe way into eternity. There is only one rod and one staff that can comfort in death. It is not morality, nor philosophy, nor the poetry of Christianity. And there is but one companion of the way, who can give the charm of society to death. You know his name. It is Jesus. Oh, that you did but trust in him! Oh, if you only loved him! Oh, would you but obey him! Oh, that you were not ashamed of him! Into his hands I am willing to resign you.

A Virtual Tour of Princeton Cemetery

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William H. Foote once wrote of Moses Hoge (Sketches of Virginia, Second Series, p. 373):

He also visited Princeton College, which, in 1810, had conferred on him, in company with his friend, Mr. [Archibald] Alexander, the degree of S.T.D.; and passed a few days with Dr. Alexander. A cold easterly rain was falling the whole time of his visit. He examined thoroughly the condition of the two institutions, the College and the Seminary, with reference to the two in Prince Edward. He rejoiced in the extended influence of his friend Alexander, and [Samuel] Miller the co-laborer. He could not refrain from a visit to the grave-yard to meditate by the tombs of [Aaron] Burr, [Sr. and Jr.]; [Jonathan] Edwards, [Samuel] Davies, [John] Witherspoon, and [Samuel Stanhope] Smith. As he tarried in that hallowed spot, the bleak wind pierced his diseased frame, and hastened his descent into the valley of death. His heart was elevated as he went from grave to grave, and read the epitaphs of these Presidents of College and teachers of Theology; and his body under the cold rain was chilled in preparation for his own resting in the silent tomb. The conversations of Hoge and Alexander those few days, had there been a hand to record them, laying open the hearts, as by a daguerrotype, of men of such exalted pure principle, so unselfish and so unlike the mass of men - what simplicity of thought, benevolence in feeling, and elevation of piety! -- but there was no man to pen what all men would have been glad to read. Mr. Hoge took his seat in the Assembly - but his fever returned upon him, of a typhus case, and by means of the cold caught in Princeton, became too deeply seated for medicine to remove. He bowed his head meekly to the will of the Head of the Church, and fell asleep in Jesus, on the [5th] of July."

Of the Alexander family, A.A. Hodge once said (Henry Carrington Alexander, The Life of Joseph Addison Alexander, Vol. 2, p. 583):

Of this one great family, A. A. Hodge once said, “I never go to Princeton without visiting the graves of the Alexanders – father and sons – and I never think of them without having my poor staggering faith in God and in regenerated humanity strengthened. Let us uncover our heads and thank God for them.”

Princeton Cemetery is comparable to Westminster Abbey or Bunhill Fields, where so many godly saints are buried - John F. Hageman described it as "the Westminster Abbey of the United States." The number of Log College Press authors who have been laid to rest here is numerous; included are Archibald Alexander, James W. Alexander, Joseph A. Alexander, Aaron Burr, Sr., Samuel Davies, A.A. Hodge, Charles Hodge, Samuel Miller, B.B. Warfield, John Witherspoon, and so many more.

For those who are unable to visit Princeton Cemetery in person, or who wish to revisit the cemetery virtually, take a tour of this special place online here. See where the past Presidents of Princeton (including Jonathan Edwards, Sr.) are buried, along with a President and Vice-President of the United States, and many other luminaries with Princeton connections. This writer has spent many hours touring the grounds, including a visit to the grave of Charles Hodge on the 140th anniversary of his entering into glory. We can all be thankful for the technology to be able to revisit Princeton Cemetery, especially in a time of isolation.

At the border of Immanuel's Land: Last words of John H. Rice

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The following instances, in which some of God's dear ministering servants, as representatives of many of 'like precious faith,' when they reached the borders of the river between them and Immanuel's land, glanced at the hills and heard something of the harmony and inhaled the fragrance blown across, are replete with interest, and should not fail to be read with profit. — Alfred Nevin, How They Died; or, Last Words of American Presbyterian Ministers (1883), pp. 11-12

Among the stories told by Nevin of faithful ministers whose last words still echo today is that of John Holt Rice (on p. 44). But for a fuller account of this particular story, we turn to the memoirs of Dr. Rice, first professor of Union Theological Seminary (then located at Hampden Sydney, Virginia), by William Maxwell and Philip Barbour Price.

As they describe “the last scene,” it was Saturday evening, September 3, 1831, and 53 year-old Rice was laying on his sick bed in agony. Many had visited him that day, and all knew that the end was near. A little bit of opium was administered to him to ease the pain. He spent time in silent prayer. Then, in Price’s words,

About 9 o'clock, rising suddenly, he threw his arms around the neck of Mrs. Rice, and with a clear, bright eye beaming with heavenly joy, exclaimed, "Mercy is — " The last word died upon his lips. "Was it ‘great’?" said Mrs. Goodrich. "No," replied Mrs. Rice, "it was a longer word." In the dim twilight of receding consciousness the dying Christian perceived that he was not understood; and, lest he should fail in the delivery of his last testimony, with great exertion, recovering his strength, he exclaimed, "Mercy is triumphant."

His head fell upon his bosom, and the words "he is gone" were uttered around the room.

Dr. Horton gently released his arms and laid him upon his pillow, and with a few more signs of breathing he expired.

Thus did he exchange “this mortal coil” for Paradise. And so entered into glory a man whose passion for spreading the gospel in Virginia and around the world was surpassed by none. Of him it might well be said, “Do you not know that a prince and a great man has fallen this day in Israel?” (2 Sam. 3:38) While his earthly remains were laid to rest at the cemetery of his beloved seminary, his hope was in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, whose mercy indeed is triumphant over all.

Rice, John Holt gravestone photo.jpg

Reflections by Francis J. Grimké on the 1918 "Spanish Flu"

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Between October 1, 1918 and February 1, 1919, over 33,000 residents of Washington, D.C. contracted what was known as the “Spanish Flu” — 2,895 citizens of the city passed away during that time period. It was a devastating time for the city as well as the rest of the world, leading officials to ban, among other things, all church services in Washington, D.C. for the month of October 1918.

When the ban on such public gatherings was lifted, Francis J. Grimké, pastor of the Fifteenth Presbyterian Church, delivered a discourse on November 3, 1918 in which he offered his thoughts about the situation, which was published soon after under the title Some Reflections, Growing Out of the Recent Epidemic of Influenza That Afflicted Our City: A Discourse.

There were several takeaways for Grimké that may well serve Christians a century later to consider as well. To begin with, it is good to be reminded of the power of God.

I have been impressed with the ease with which large portions of the population may be wiped out in spite of the skill of man, of all the resources of science. Suddenly this epidemic came upon our city and country, and though every physician has been employed and every available nurse has been at work day and night, thousands have died, the awful death toll continued. Through all history we find populations thinned out in this way, not in ordinary, but in extraordinary ways. One night in Egypt death found its way into every Egyptian home. In Numbers 16:49, we read of a plague that broke out among the people in which 14,700 perished. In 2 Samuel 24:15, we also read of another plague that broke out in the reign of David in which, during three days, 70,000 perished. Thousands also have perished suddenly as the result of volcanic eruptions or earthquake shocks. How easy it would be for God to wipe out the whole human race, in this way, if he wanted to; for these terrible epidemics, plagues, the mighty forces of nature, all are at His command, are all His agents. At any moment, if He willed it, in this way, vast populations or portions of populations could be destroyed.

Grimké also wondered to himself, Why is it that the pestilence was fatal for some while others recovered?

The reason may be found, in one sense, in purely natural causes— some were physically better prepared to resist the disease, were stronger in vital power, and so pulled through. Others, not having sufficient vitality, went down under the strain; but I believe there is also another reason, and is to be found in the will of God. For some, the time of their departure had come, the limit of their earthly existence had been reached, and this was God's way of removing them out of this world into the next. Some day we have all got to go, but how, or when, or where, we do not know; that is with God alone.

In Grimké’s words, “We speak of accidental deaths, at times, but there are no accidents with God. All things are within the scope of His providence.” He continued to wonder, though, “Why are some taken with the disease and others not?” In meditating on the promise of preservation from illness in Psalm 91, Grimké acknowledged with humility that he didn’t know the secret will of God, but he did trust in the sovereign will of God.

He went on to address the problem of restricted civil liberties during the ban.

Another thing that has impressed me, in connection with this epidemic, is the fact that conditions may arise in a community which justify the extraordinary exercise of powers that would not be tolerated under ordinary circumstances. This extraordinary exercise of power was resorted to by the Commissioners in closing up the theaters, schools, churches, in forbidding all gatherings of any considerable number of people indoors and outdoors, and in restricting the numbers who should be present even at funerals. The ground of the exercise of this extraordinary power was found in the imperative duty of the officials to safeguard, as far as possible, the health of the community by preventing the spread of the disease from which we were suffering. There has been considerable grumbling, I know, on the part of some, particularly in regard to the closing of the churches. It seems to me, however, in a matter like this it is always wise to submit to such restrictions for the time being. If, as a matter of fact, it was dangerous to meet in theaters and in the schools, it certainly was no less dangerous to meet in churches. The fact that the churches were places of religious gathering, and the others not, would not affect in the least the health question involved. If avoiding crowds lessens the danger of being infected, it was wise to take the precaution and not needlessly run in danger, and expect God to protect us. And so, anxious as I have been to resume work, I have waited patiently until the order was lifted. I started to worry at first, as it seemed to upset all of our plans for the fall work; but I soon recovered my composure. I said to myself, Why worry? God knows what He is doing. His work isn’t going to suffer. It will rather be a help to it in the end. Out of it, I believe, great good is coming. All the churches, as well as the community at large, are going to be the stronger and better for this season of distress through which we have been passing.

Grimké was also led to reflect on the color-blind nature of the illness which swept his city and the world. It made no difference to the “Spanish Flu” whether those afflicted were white, black or brown; rich or poor; or in what class of society or locale they resided. All residents of Washington, indeed all human beings, were equally at risk of this disease - a fact which Grimké hoped would help those in power to see the foolishness of racial prejudice, or “colorphobia.”

Under such circumstances of what avail is the color of a man's skin, or his race identity? What does the lightning, the thunderbolt, the burning lava, the sea, care about color or race? White and black alike are dealt with indiscriminately; the one is smitten as readily as the other; the one is swallowed up as readily as the other. And that is the lesson which God is teaching everywhere through the operation of natural laws. And it is the great lesson which He also teaches in His inspired word; and which Jesus Christ, who said, "I am the light of the world. He that followeth after Me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life," sought constantly to emphasize both by [precept] and example.

Grimké reminds us that we are called to love our neighbor as ourselves, no matter what may be a person’s skin color or background. Are we not all made in the image of God? This is the commandment of Christ, and we are to follow Christ’s own example.

Further, Grimké reflected on the importance of the church to the community at large. It was indeed a hardship for churches to be closed for a season.

The fact that for several weeks we have been shut out from the privileges of the sanctuary has brought home to us as never before what the church has really meant to us. We hadn't thought, perhaps, very much of the privilege while it lasted, but the moment it was taken away we saw at once how much it meant to us. One of the gratifying things to me, during this scourge, has been the sincere regrets that I have heard expressed all over the city by numbers of people at the closing of the churches. The theater goers, of course, have regretted the closing of the theaters. I do not know whether the children or the teachers have regretted the closing of the schools or not; I have heard no regrets expressed, but I do know that large numbers of people have regretted the closing of the churches. I hope that now that they are opened again, that we will all show our appreciation of their value by attending regularly upon their services. It would be a great calamity to any community to be without the public ministrations of the sanctuary. There is no single influence in a community that counts for more than the Christian church. It is one of the institutions, particularly, that ought to be strongly supported; that ought to be largely attended, and that ought to have the hearty endorsement and well-wishes of every right thinking man and woman within it. It is a great mistake for any one to stand aloof from the Christian church. Everybody in the community ought to have a church home, and ought to be found in that church home Sabbath after Sabbath.

Another profound consideration that Grimké raised is the importance of keeping eternal matters before our minds.

There is another thing connected with this epidemic that is also worthy of note. While it lasted, it kept the thought of death and of eternity constantly before the people. As the papers came out, day after day, among the first things that every one looked for, or asked about, was as to the number of deaths. And so the thought of death was never allowed to stay very long out of the consciousness of the living. And with the thought of death, the great thought also of eternity, for it is through death that the gates of eternity swing open. We don't as a general thing think very much about either death or eternity. They are not pleasant things to think about, and so we avoid thinking of them as much as possible. It is only when we are forced to that we give them any consideration, and even then only for the moment. They are both subjects of vital importance, however, involving the most momentous consequences. For after death is always the judgment. The grim messenger is God's summons to us to render up our account. That there is an account to be rendered up we are inclined to lose sight of, to forget; but it is to be rendered all the same. The books are to be opened, and we are to be judged out of the books. During the weeks of this epidemic — in the long list of deaths, in the large number of new-made graves, in the unusual number of funeral processions along our streets, God has been reminding us of this account which we must soon render up; He has been projecting before us in away to startle us, the thought of eternity.

Thus, Grimké implored all, especially those outside the household of faith, to weigh carefully the question of eternal life, and to seek the Lord while He may yet be found. In the midst of death, there is true and eternal life in Jesus Christ. And this true life gives great peace.

There is only one other thought that has come tome in connection with this epidemic; it is of the blessedness of religion, of the sense of security which a true, living, working faith in the Lord Jesus Christ gives one in the midst of life's perils. I felt, as doubtless you all felt, who are Christians, the blessedness of a firm grip upon Jesus Christ — the blessedness of a realizing sense of being anchored in God and in His precious promises. While the plague was raging, while thousands were dying, what a comfort it was to feel that we were in the hands of a loving Father who was looking out for us, who had given us the great assurance that all things should work together for our good. And, therefore, that come what would — whether we were smitten with the epidemic or not, or whether being smitten, we survived or perished, we knew it would be well with us, that there was no reason to be alarmed. Even if death came, we knew it was all right. The apostle says, "It is gain for me to die." Death had no terrors for him. He says, The hour of my departure is at hand: I .have fought the good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of glory which the Lord the righteous judge shall give at that day. And not to me only but to all them that love His appearing. And it was this same apostle who flung in the face of death the defiance, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?" The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks be unto God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

In the presence of such a faith, in the realization of God's love, as revealed in Jesus Christ, in the consciousness of fellowship with him, what are epidemics, what are scourges, what are all of life's trials, sufferings, disappointments? They only tend to work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. But, of course, if faith is to help us; if it is to put its great strong arms under us; if we are to feel its sustaining power under such distressing circumstances, it must be a real, living faith in God — it must be the genuine article — a faith that works, that works by love, and that purifies the heart. Any other faith is of absolutely no value to us in the midst of the great crises of life. And I said to myself while the epidemic was on, and while I was examining my own heart to see how far my religion was helping me to be calm, self-possessed. It is a good time for those of us who are Christians to examine ourselves to see exactly how it is with us, whether the foundation upon which we are building is a rock foundation — whether our faith is really resting upon Christ, the solid Rock, or not. And I still feel that one important function of this epidemic will be lost if it fails to have that effect upon us, if it does not lead to careful heart-searching on our part.

These reflections by Francis J. Grimké may well speak to our hearts a century after they were delivered. Pestilence is not new, and every generation must confront challenges to their faith, as well as their very lives and well-being. But our God changes not, and the lessons shared by Grimké in the midst of one epidemic are lessons that we who are in the midst of another do well to prayerfully consider.

"A rarer air / Where all is fair": L.T. Newland on "A Christian's Death"

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LeRoy Tate Newland (1885-1969) was a graduate of Davidson College in Davidson, North Carolina; a long-time missionary to Korea; and he served at least two pastorates in the United States as well. He was also a prolific poet. A small number of his poems are available at Log College Press. His major work of poetry is not yet available here: So Rich a Crown: Poems of Faith (1963). One particular poem by Newland has been selected for today’s post. It appears to have been prompted by the 1953 death of L.D. Tester in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, while Newland was serving as pastor of Rumple Memorial Presbyterian Church (source: Donald B. Saunders, For His Cause A Little House: A Hundred Year History of Rumple Memorial Presbyterian Church (1988), p. 114). This poem was also reprinted in the Christian Observer with notice of Newland’s own death in 1969.

A Christian’s Death

And what is death?
A sudden stopping of the breath
That one may breathe a rarer air
Where all is fair.

You say he died.
Can life be greater glorified
Than to unclose pain-wearied eyes
In Paradise?

Is this the end?
He has but gone to meet a Friend
And, dying, found a way
To endless day.

Christian, consider this sweet meditation on the precious death of a saint (Ps. 116:15), and may it help to bring an eternal perspective to the painful event which caused even our Lord Jesus to weep (John 11:35).