The authorship of the designation "sky pilot" is as unknown as that of
the four gospels. Yet its origin is recent. It has only been in use for
a few years, say ten, or at the outside twenty. Nobody knows, however,
who was the first man from whose lips it fell. Probably he was an
American, but his name and address are not ascertained. Surely this
fact, which has thousands if not millions of parallels, should abate the
impudence of religionists who ask "Who made the world?" when they do not
know who made nine-tenths of the well-known things it contains.
Whatever its origin, the designation is a happy one. It fits like a
glove, Repeat it to the first man you meet, and though he never heard it
before, he will knew that you mean a minister. For this very reason it
makes the men of God angry. They feel insulted, and let you see it. They
accuse you of calling them names, and if you smile too sarcastically
they will indulge in some well-selected Bible language themselves.
There are some trades that will not bear honest designations, and the
minister's is one of them. Call him what you please, except what he is,
and he is not disquieted. But call him "sky-pilot" and he starts up like
Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo, exclaiming "Come in any other form but
that!"
Go down to the seaside and look at one of those bluff, weather-beaten,
honest fellows, who know all the rocks and shoals, and tides and
channels, for miles around. Call one of them a "pilot," and he will not
be offended. The term is legitimate. It exactly denotes his business.
He is rather proud of it. His calling is honorable and useful. He pilots
ships through uncertain and dangerous waters to their destination.
He does his work, takes his pay, and feels satisfied; and if you cry
"pilot!" he answers merrily with a "what cheer?"
But "sky" in front of "pilot" makes all the difference. It makes the man
of God feel like having a cold shower bath; then the reaction sets in
and he grows hot--sometimes as hot as H---- well, Hades.
We are not going to swear if the parson does,
But after all, he _is_ a "pilot" and a "sky" pilot.
He undertakes to pilot people to Heaven.
Let him board your ship and take the helm, and he will guide you over
the Black Sea of Death to Port Felicity that, at least, is what he says
in his trade circular, though it turns out very differently in practice,
as we shall see presently.
Let us first notice a great difference between the sea pilot and the
sky pilot. The honest salt boards the ship, and takes her out to sea, or
brings her into port. When the work is over he presents his bill, or
it is done for him. He does not ask for payment in advance. He neither
takes nor gives credit. But the sky pilot does take credit and he
gives none. He is always paid beforehand. Every year he expects a
good retaining fee in the shape of a stipend or a benefice, or a good
percentage of the pew rents and collections. But when his services are
really wanted he leaves you in the lurch. You do not need a pilot to
Heaven until you come to die. Then your voyage begins in real earnest.
But the sky-pilot does not go with you. Oh dear no! That is no part of
_his_ bargain. "Ah my friend," he says, "I must leave you now. You must
do the rest for yourself. I have coached you for years in celestial
navigation; if you remember my lessons you will have a prosperous
voyage. Good day, dear friend. I'm going to see another customer. But we
shall meet again."
Now this is not a fair contract. It is really obtaining money under
false pretences. The sky pilot has never been to Heaven himself. He does
not know the way. Anyhow, there are hundreds of different routes, and
they cannot all lead to the same place. Certainly they all start from
this world, but that is all they have in common, and where they end is
a puzzle. To pay money in such circumstances is foolish and an
encouragement to fraud. The best way to pay for goods is on delivery; in
the same way the sky pilot should be paid at the finish.
But how is that to be done? Well, easily. All you have to do is to
address the sky pilot in this fashion--"Dearly beloved pilot to the land
of bliss! let our contract be fair and mutual. Give me credit as I give
you credit. Don't ask for cash on account. I'll pay at the finish. Your
directions may be sound; they ought to be, for you are very dogmatic.
Still, there is room for doubt, and I don't want to be diddled. You tell
me to follow your rules of celestial navigation. Well, I will. You say
we shall meet at Port Felicity. Well, I hope so; and when we do meet
I'll square up."
Of course, it may be objected that this would starve the sky pilots. But
why should it do anything of the kind? Have _they_ no faith! Must all
the faith be on _our_ side? Should they not practise a little of what
they preach? God tells them to _pray_ for their daily bread, and no
doubt he would add some cheese and butter. All they have to do is to
_ask_ for it. "Ask and ye shall receive," says the text, and it has many
confirmations. For forty years the Jews were among the unemployed, and
Jehovah sent them food daily. "He rained down bread from heaven." The
prophet Elijah, also, lived in the wilderness on the sandwiches God sent
him--bread and meat in the morning, and bread and meat in the evening.
There was likewise the widow's cruse of oil and barrel of flour, which
supported her and the man of God day by day without diminishing. These
things actually happened. They are as true as the Bible. And they may
happen again. At any rate they _should_ happen. The sky-pilots should
subsist on the fruits of prayer. Let them live by faith--not _our_
faith, but _their_ own. This will prove their sincerity, and give
us some trust in their teaching. And if they _should_ starve in the
experiment--well, it is worth making, and they will fall martyrs to
truth and human happiness. _One_ batch of martyrs will suffice. There
will be no need of what Gibbon calls "an annual consumption."
The men of God pilot _us_ to Heaven, but they are very loth to go there
themselves. Heaven is their "home," but they prefer exile, even in this
miserable vale of tears. When they fall ill, they do not welcome it as
a call from the Father. They do not sing "Nearer my God to thee." We do
not find them going about saying "I shall be home shortly." Oh no! They
indulge freely in self-pity. Like a limpet to a rock do they cling to
this wretched, sinful world. Congregations are asked if they cannot "do
something," a subscription is got up, and the man of God rushes off
to the seaside, where prayer, in co-operation with oxygen and ozone,
restore him to health, enable him to dodge "going home," and qualify him
for another term of penal servitude on earth.
It appears to us that sky pilots, like other men, should be judged
by their practice. If they show no belief in what they preach, we are
foolish to believe in it any more than they do. It also appears to us
that their profession is as fraudulent as fortune-telling. Many a poor
old woman has been imprisoned for taking sixpence from a servant girl,
after promising her a tall, dark husband and eight fine children; but
men dressed in black coats and white chokers are allowed to take money
for promises of good fortune in the "beautiful land above." It further
appears to us that the sky pilots should be compelled to come to a
reasonable agreement before their trade is licensed. They should settle
_where Heaven_ is before they begin business. Better still, perhaps,
every applicant for a license should prove that _some_ human soul _has
been_ piloted to Heaven. Until that is done, the profession is only
robbery and imposture.