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.”

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De Witt Talmage: Seek the God of the Pleiades and Orion

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Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion (Amos 5:8).

Some of Thomas De Witt Talmage’s sermons are so rich in word-pictures that they appear to us as a bright as the night sky far away from any electric lights. A case in point comes from his discourse on “The Pleiades and Orion” in New Tabernacle Sermons (1886).

A country farmer wrote this text—Amos of Tekoa. He plowed the earth and threshed the grain by a new threshing-machine just invented, as formerly the cattle trod out the grain. He gathered the fruit of the sycamore-tree, and scarified it with an iron comb just before it was getting ripe, as it was necessary and customary in that way to take from it the bitterness. He was the son of a poor shepherd, and stuttered; but before the stammering rustic the Philistines, and Syrians, and Phoenicians, and Moabites, and Ammonites, and Edomites, and Israelites trembled.

Moses was a law-giver, Daniel was a prince, Isaiah a courtier, and David a king; but Amos, the author of my text, was a peasant, and, as might be supposed, nearly all his parallelisms are pastoral, his prophecy full of the odor of new-mown hay, and the rattle of locusts, and the rumble of carts with sheaves, and the roar of wild beasts devouring the flock while the shepherd came out in their defense. He watched the herds by day, and by night inhabited a booth made out of bushes, so that through these branches he could see the stars all night long, and was more familiar with them than we who have tight roofs to our houses, and hardly ever see the stars except among the tall brick chimneys of the great towns. But at seasons of the year when the herds were in special danger, he would stay out in the open field all through the darkness, his only shelter the curtain of the night, heaven, with the stellar embroideries and silvered tassels of lunar light.

What a life of solitude, all alone with his herds! Poor Amos! And at twelve o'clock at night, hark to the wolf's bark, and the lion's roar, and the bear's growl, and the owl's te-whit-te-whos, and the serpent's hiss, as he unwittingly steps too near while moving through the thickets! So Amos, like other herdsmen, got the habit of studying the map of the heavens, because it was so much of the time spread out before him. He noticed some stars advancing and others receding. He associated their dawn and setting with certain seasons of the year. He had a poetic nature, and he read night by night, and month by month, and year by year, the poem of the constellations, divinely rhythmic. But two rosettes of stars especially attracted his attention while seated on the ground, or lying on his back under the open scroll of the midnight heavens—the Pleiades, or Seven Stars, and Orion. The former group this rustic prophet associated with the spring, as it rises about the first of May. The latter he associated with the winter, as it comes to the meridian in January. The Pleiades, or Seven Stars, connected with all sweetness and joy: Orion, the herald of the tempest.

Talmage goes on to say:

In the first place, Amos saw, as we must see, that the God who made the Pleiades and Orion must be the God of order. It was not so much a star here and a star there that impressed the inspired herdsman, but seven in one group, and seven in the other group. He saw that night after night and season after season and decade after decade they had kept step of light, each one in its own place, a sisterhood never clashing and never contesting precedence. From the time Hesiod called the Pleiades the "seven daughters of Atlas" and Virgil wrote in his Aeneid of "Stormy Orion" until now, they have observed the order established for their coming and going; order written not in manuscript that may be pigeon-holed, but with the hand of the Almighty on the dome of the sky, so that all nations may read it. Order. Persistent order. Sublime order. Omnipotent order.

What a sedative to you and me, to whom communities and nations sometimes seem going pell-mell, and world ruled by some fiend at hap-hazard, and in all directions maladministration! The God who keeps seven worlds in right circuit for six thousand years can certainly keep all the affairs of individuals and nations and continents in adjustment. We had not better fret much, for the peasant's argument of the text was right. If God can take care of the seven worlds of the Pleiades and the four chief worlds of Orion, He can probably take care of the one world we inhabit.

Truly, what a great comfort it is to place our trust in the One who creates and governs the stars, as well as the Earth upon which we live.

In your occupation, your mission, your sphere, do the best you can, and then trust to God; and if things are all mixed and disquieting, and your brain is hot and your heart sick, get some one to go out with you into the starlight and point out to you the Pleiades, or, better than that, get into some observatory, and through the telescope see further than Amos with the naked eye could—namely, two hundred stars in the Pleiades, and that in what is called the sword of Orion there is a nebula computed to be two trillion two hundred thousand billions of times larger than the sun. Oh, be at peace with the God who made all that and controls all that—the wheel of the constellations turning in the wheel of galaxies for thousands of years without the breaking of a cog or the slipping of a band or the snap of an axle. For your placidity and comfort through the Lord Jesus Christ I charge you, "Seek Him that maketh the Seven Stars and Orion."

Our preacher continues further:

Oh, what a mercy it is that in the text and all up and down the Bible God induces us to look out toward other worlds! Bible astronomy in Genesis, in Joshua, in Job, in the Psalms, in the prophets, major and minor, in St. John's Apocalypse, practically saying, "Worlds! worlds! worlds! Get ready for them!" We have a nice little world here that we stick to, as though losing that we lose all. We are afraid of falling off this little raft of a world. We are afraid that some meteoric iconoclast will some night smash it, and we want everything to revolve around it, and are disappointed when we find that it revolves around the sun instead of the sun revolving around it. What a fuss we make about this little bit of a world, its existence only a short time between two spasms, the paroxysm by which it was hurled from chaos into order, and the paroxysm of its demolition.

And I am glad that so many texts call us to look off to other worlds, many of them larger and grander and more resplendent. "Look there,' says Job, "at Mazaroth and Arcturus and his sons!" "Look there," says St. John, "at the moon under Christ's feet!" "Look there," says Joshua, "at the sun standing still above Gibeon!" "Look there," says Moses, "at the sparkling firmament!" "Look there," says Amos, the herdsman, "at the Seven Stars and Orion!" Don't let us be so sad about those who shove off from this world under Christly pilotage. Don't let us be so agitated about our own going off this little barge or sloop or canal-boat of a world to get on some "Great Eastern" of the heavens. Don't let us persist in wanting to stay in this barn, this shed, this outhouse of a world, when all the King's palaces already occupied by many of our best friends are swinging wide open their gates to let us in.

There is a reason why the Scriptures call us to look heavenward, at the celestial. In the words of John Calvin, “Job's intent here is to teach us to be astronomers” (commentary on Job 9). Although given dominion over this beautiful blue globe, and called to till the ground and give a good account of our stewardship, we who are created in the image of God are called to not be satisfied with the earthly and temporal, but to long for the heavenly and eternal. We are called to seek the God of the Pleiades and Orion. Read Talmage’s full sermon on this topic and many more here, and pause to meditate upon not only the wonders of creation, especially in the skies above, but to ponder the love of our God for such as we.

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? (Ps. 8:3-4)

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The flowers of spring: An appreciation of and by Cornelia Phillips Spencer

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…WINTER, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Work Without Hope”

In the midst of winter, it may help revive the spirit to look ahead to the prospect of spring. A newly-added author to Log College Press — Cornelia Phillips Spencer (1825-1908) — was a Presbyterian author who had a special fondness for the flora of her adopted state, North Carolina. Her poetry and her paintings reflect the sense of the Creator who adorned his creation with such beauty. The Carolina lily pictured below later became the official state wildflower of North Carolina.

Carolina lily by Cornelia Phillips Spencer (photo by Ken Moore).

Spencer was known as “The Woman Who Rang the Bell,” because after the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill was closed during the Reconstruction period following the War Between the States, from 1870 to 1875, she sent numerous letters to the state legislature beseeching them to reopen that institution of higher learning. Finally, on her 50th birthday, she received word that they had granted her request. In jubilation, she rang the campus bell, and composed a hymn of praise for the occasion. Spencer Hall on the Carolina campus is named in her honor.

As anyone who has lived in Chapel Hill in the springtime and beheld the dogwoods blooming, and more, can testify, the flowers of North Carolina are a special sight. In her 1866 volume on The Last Ninety Days of the War in North Carolina, she included these verses, reflective of her appreciation of the setting of a memorial which took place in the month of April.

Come, Southern flowers, and twine above their grave;
Let all our rath spring blossoms bear a part;
Let lilies of the vale and snowdrops wave.
And come thou too, fit emblem, bleeding-heart!

Bring all our evergreens — the laurel and the bay.
From the deep forests which around us stand;
They know them well, for in a happier day
They roamed these hills and valleys hand in hand.

Ye winds of heaven, o'er them gently sigh.
And April showers fall in kindliest rain,
And let the golden sunbeams softly lie
Upon the sod for which they died in vain.

A bouquet including Goldenrod and Christmas fern by Cornelia Phillips Spencer (photo by Ken Moore).

Spencer’s botanical appreciation for the beauty of nature around her was reflective of her love for the God who made the flora and fauna, and the art forms she chose to express that appreciation were reflective of the Artist who brings all to new life again in the spring. During the winter months, let us remember God’s faithfulness to bring vivid colors once again to grey landscapes. The land will rejoice, and flowers shall blossom again, to the praise of God (Isa. 35:1).

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A poem for May Day by Boyd McCullough

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To celebrate the first day of May, we present a poem from Irish-American Reformed / United Presbyterian minister Boyd McCullough’s autobiography The Experience of Seventy Years (1895). The book is not yet on Log College Press, but it is a fascinating read and filled with his poetic verse. The following seems to be a tribute perhaps to the fragrant Trailing Arbutus (Epigaea repens), a flower of delicate beauty.

To a Wild Flower

Mrs. Margaret Cameron, of Bloomington Ferry, received anonymously a wild flower of rare beauty. She suspected that it came from her sister in Wisconsin. She pressed it and put it in her album and she desired a few verses to put in with it.

Little flower of beauty rare,
From Wisconsin’s woods you came,
With perfume you graced the air.
Trailing Love’s your pretty name.

In the merry month of May
To my door your way you found,
When the singing birds are gay,
’Mong the trees with blossoms crowned.

Not a word had you to say;
Not a message have you brought;
Yet a sister far away
Came at once into my thought.

Wildwoods are your chosen spot,
In the garden bed you die;
Thus true love, which glads the cot,
From the lordly dome will fly.

When to dust you shall depart,
As from dust your sprung.
Your remembrance in my heart,
Like a picture shall be hung.

Wedded bliss was once my share,
Soon my sky was overcast.
Still my heart retains with care,
Memories of the happy past.

Heaven has lent this precious boon
To the patient, trusting mind;
Earthly glories, fading soon,
Leave a sweet perfumer behind.

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Eyes open to the world around you: Julia McNair Wright

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He claimed that, while reading about nature was fine, “if a person walks in the woods and listens carefully, he can learn more than what is in books, for they speak with the voice of God.” — Helga Schier, writing about George Washington Carver (George Washington Carver: Agricultural Innovator: Agricultural Innovator, p. 79)

If God is the author of two books, Nature and Scripture (Ps. 19), we do well to attend to both. It was said of the Presbyterian minister James L. Woods (1846-1918) that:

Mr. Woods loved God and all things that He made — the trees, the flowers and the grandeur of the mountains. To him they spoke a "various language" as he held "communion with her visible forms." It was his custom to take long walks among the mountains, sometimes spending days among their fastnesses. It was when returning to his home in Lakeport from one of these rambles that he succumbed.on the 13th of June, 1918, at the close of a beautiful day. A friend wrote: How fitting that he should fall asleep in the arms of nature (Harriet E. Jones in James L. Woods, California Pioneer Decade of 1849: The Presbyterian Church (1922)).

Maltbie D. Babcock loved to hike, especially along the Niagara Escarpment to enjoy the overlook's panoramic vista of upstate New York scenery and Lake Ontario, telling his wife he was "going out to see the Father's world". Such hikes inspired his famous poem, which later became the hymn “This is My Father’s World.”

This is my Father’s world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world;
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father’s world;
the birds their carols raise;
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world;
he shines in all that’s fair.
In the rustling grass I hear him pass;
he speaks to me everywhere.

Another Presbyterian writer who loved nature and aimed to instill that love in children was Julia McNair Wright (1840-1903). We have taken note before of her historical fiction and biographical sketches for children. Today we take note of her writings on science and nature; specifically, those focused on teaching children to open their eyes to the world around them to the glory of God.

Among the 90 or more published writings by Mrs. Wright (which we continue to upload to Log College Press as we are able) are a number of works for or about children and science or nature. She published a popular four-volume set of Nature Readers: Sea-Side and Way-Side in the late 1880s and early 1890s; and volumes for young people on astronomy and botany in 1898.

She also wrote short articles for periodicals such as Fiddler-Crabs (for The American Naturalist, May 1887); “Shall Our Children Study Natural Science?” (for the Nashville, Tennessee Southwestern Journal of Education, September 1887); The Cultivation in Young Children, of a Taste for the Literary and Scientific (for the Boston, Massachusetts American Teacher, January 1888); and Scientific Collections: How Made (also for the American Teacher, April 1888). Several nature “dispatches” written from her home in Fulton, Missouri were published in the weekly newspaper Science. Those “dispatches” consisted largely of personal, scientific observations pertaining to creatures which lived nearby.

So many of these sorts of writings by Mrs. Wright seem to have arisen because of a deeply personal appreciation for the world around her, and a desire to share that interest and passion with young people. A love of nature is apparently contagious, and for those who may be housebound, it is worth reading over some of these writings to be stirred up in the appreciation of the world outside. Even in isolation, through windows at least, one can still appreciate the beauty of the birds, the stars, the trees, and take note of many facets of God’s creation. Reading books is fine, as George Washington Carver has said, but few things can surpass a walk in the woods or through fields or at the beach, with friends or family, and with eyes open to the glory of God in his creation.

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