A number of men and women were sitting on the promenade deck forward
engaged in an earnest discussion. Just as Chester Lawrence came up and
paused to listen, for it seemed to be a public, free-for-all affair, he
noticed that Elder Malby was talking, directing his remarks to a young
man in the group.
"What is your objective point?" the Elder asked. "What do you live and
work for? What is your philosophy of life by which you are guided and
from which you draw courage, hope, and strength?"
"Oh, I take the world as it comes to me day by day, trusting to luck, or
to the Lord, perhaps I had better say, for the future," replied the
young fellow.
"What would you think of a captain of a vessel not knowing nor caring to
know from what port he sailed or what port was his destination? Who did
not know the object of the voyage, knew nothing of how to meet the
storms, the fog, the darkness of the sea?"
"Well, I'm not the captain of a ship."
"Yes, you are. You are the captain of your own soul, at least; and you
may not know how many more souls are depending upon you for guidance in
this voyage of life which we are all taking."
"That's right--true," agreed a number of by-standers.
"Say, mister," suggested one, "tell us what you think of the
propositions. You seem able to, all right."
"Well," responded the elder, "I don't want to preach a sermon that will
bore you; but if the ladies and gentlemen here are interested I shall be
pleased to give my views."
"Sure--go on," came from others.
One or two found seats, as if they would rather sit through the ordeal,
others following their example. "Yes; it's more comfortable," agreed
Elder Malby, as they drew their chairs in a circle. Two people left, but
two others came and took their places.
"I hope we are all Christians," began the speaker, "at least so far that
we believe the Scriptures; otherwise my arguments will not appeal to
you."
A number acknowledged themselves to be Christians.
"Then I may begin by saying that the purpose of this life-voyage of ours
is that we might obtain the life eternal. 'This is life eternal' that we
might know God and His Son Jesus Christ who was sent to us. If we know
the Son we know the Father, for we are told that the Father has revealed
Himself through the Son. This Son we know as Jesus Christ who was born
into the world as we were. He had a body of flesh. He was like us, His
brethren; yet this Being, the Scriptures tell us, was in the 'form of
God;' that He was the 'image of the invisible God;' that He was 'in the
express image of His Father's person.' When Jesus lived on the earth,
one of His disciples asked Him, 'Show us the Father.' 'He that hath seen
me, hath seen the Father,' was the reply. 'I am the way, the truth, and
the life; no man cometh to the Father but by me.'"
At this point the Rev. Mr. Strong and his daughter came sauntering along
the deck. They paused to listen, then accepted the chairs which Chester
hurriedly found for them.
"I am not stating where in the Scriptures these quotations can be
found," continued the elder, "though I shall be pleased to do so to any
who wish to know. Well then, here we have a glorious truth: if we wish
to know God, we are to study the Son. Jesus is the great Example, the
Revealer of the Father. He is the Father's representative in form and in
action. If Jesus, the Son, is meek and lowly, so also is the Father; if
He is wise and good and forgiving, so is the Father; if the Son is
long-suffering and slow to anger, yet not afraid to denounce sin and
call to account the wicked, so likewise may we represent the Father. All
the noble attributes which we find in the Son exist in perfectness in
the Father.
"Picture this noble Son, the risen Redeemer, my friends, after His
battle with death and His victory over the grave! In the splendid glory
of His divine manhood, all power both in heaven and earth in His hand,
He stands as _the_ shining figure of the ages. Why? Because He is 'God
With Us.'"
There was perfect stillness in the group of listeners.
"Thus the Father has shown Himself to us. There is no need for any of us
to plead ignorance of our Divine Parent. The way is marked out, the
path, though at times difficult, is plain. The Son does the will of the
Father. 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work,' said Jesus. 'The Son
can do nothing of Himself, but what He seeth the Father do; for what
things soever He doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise.' We, then,
are to follow Christ, as He follows the Father. Isn't that plain?"
"Do I understand," asked one, "that you believe God to be in the form of
man?"
"Rather that man is in the form of God, for 'God created man in His own
image.'"
"In His moral image only. God is a spirit. He is everywhere present, and
therefore cannot have a body, such as you claim," objected one.
"I claim nothing, my friend. I am only telling you what the Scriptures
teach. They say nothing about a 'moral image.' What is a moral image?
Can it have an existence outside and apart from a personality of form?"
There was no immediate response to this. Some looked at the minister as
if he ought to speak, but that person remained silent.
"The attributes of God, as far as we know them, are easily put into
words; but try to think of goodness and mercy and love and
long-suffering and wisdom outside and apart from a conscious
personality, an individual, if you please. Try it."
Some appeared to be trying.
"Pagan philosophers have largely taken from the world our true
conception of God, and given to us one 'without body, parts, or
passions.' The Father has been robbed of His glorious personality in the
minds of men. Christ also has been spiritualized into an unthinkable
nothingness. And so, to be consistent some have concluded that man also
is non-existent; and it naturally follows that God and Christ and man,
with the whole material universe, are relegated to the emptyness of a
dream."
"If God is in the form of man He cannot be everywhere," suggested one of
the ladies. "And that's not a pleasant thought."
"Our friend here," continued the speaker, nodding to Mr. Strong, "quoted
a passage in his splendid sermon last Sunday which explains how God may
be and is present in all His creations. Certainly God the Father cannot
personally be in two places at the same time any more than God the Son
could or can." The elder took a Bible from his pocket.
"I had better read the passage. It is found in the 139th Psalm. David
exclaims, 'Whither shall I go from thy _spirit_, or whither shall I flee
from thy presence?' You will recall the rest of the passage. Is it not
plain that the Lord is present by His Spirit always and everywhere. His
Spirit sustains and controls and blesses all things throughout the
immensity of space. Fear not, my friend, that that Spirit cannot be
with you and bless you on sea or on land. We cannot get outside its
working power any more than we can escape the Spirit of Christ now and
here, even if His glorified body of flesh and bones now sits on the
right hand of His Father in heaven where Stephen saw it."
As is usual in all such discussions as this, some soon retire, others
linger, eager not to miss a word. Lucy, you may be sure, was among those
who remained. Her father also, sitting near to Chester, listened with
deep interest.
"Just one more thought," continued the "Mormon" elder, "in regard to
this lady's fear that God may not be able to take care of all His
children always and everywhere. God is essentially a Father--our Father.
The fathering of God gives me great comfort. By fathering I mean that He
has not only brought us into existence, but He has sent us forth,
provides for us, watches over us. In our darkness He gives us light, in
our weakness He lends us strength. He rebukes our wrong actions, and
chastens us for our good. In fact, He fathers us to the end. Is it not a
great comfort?"
"It certainly is," said Lucy, unconscious to all else but the spirit of
the Elder's words.
"In this world," said the Elder, "the God-given power of creation is
exercised unthoughtfully, unwisely, and often wickedly. A
good-for-nothing scamp may become a father in name; but he who attains
to that holy title in fact, must do as God does,--must love, cherish,
sustain and make sacrifices for his child until his offspring becomes
old enough and strong enough to stand for himself,--Don't you think so,
Mr. Strong?"
All eyes were turned to the minister who was appealed to so directly.
Had the reverend gentleman been listening, or had his thoughts been with
his eyes, out to sea? His face was a study. But that was not to be
wondered at. Was he not a dispenser of the Word himself, and had he not
been listening to strange doctrine? However, he soon shifted his gaze
from the horizon to his questioner.
"Certainly, I agree with you," he replied. "Father and fathering are
distinct things. Happy the man who combines them in his life--happy,
indeed."
The afternoon was growing to a close. The sun sank into the western sea.
The Elder, carried along by the awakened missionary spirit, continued
his talk. He explained that the Father had by means of the Son pointed
out the way of life, called the plan of salvation, or gospel of Jesus
Christ. He spoke of faith, repentance, and baptism for the remission of
sins; for, said the Elder to himself, even the minister has need of
these things.
Lucy drank eagerly the words of life. Her father sat unmoved, making no
comment or objection. He had never been one to wrangle over religion;
had prided himself, in fact, on being liberal and broad-minded; so he
would not dispute even though he could not altogether agree. The Elder's
words came to him in a strange way. Had he heard all this before? If so,
it had been in some long-forgotten past; and this man's discourse only
awakened a faint remembrance as of a distant bell tolling across the
hills. Away back in his youth, he must have heard something like this;
or was it an echo of some pre-existent world--he had heard of such
things before. Perhaps it was the man's tone of voice, his mannerism
that recalled, in some way, some past impression.
The Elder stopped. Lucy touched her father's arm.
"Father," she said, "I believe you are cold. I had better get your
coat."
The minister arose, as if stiffened in the joints by long sitting. He
reached out his hand to the Elder. "I have enjoyed your gospel talk," he
said. "May I ask your name, and to what Church you belong, for evidently
you are a preacher."
"My name is George Malby, and I am an elder of the Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly known as 'Mormons.'"
"A 'Mormon!'" a number of voices chorused.
Some confusion followed, and the party broke up. Lucy, her father, and
Chester, still lingered.
"Father," said Lucy, "I had intended to introduce you to Elder Malby,
but I wanted you to hear, unprejudiced, what he had to say. What he has
been teaching is 'Mormonism,' and you'll admit now that it is not at all
bad. You never would listen nor read."
"Lucy--that will do. Good evening, gentlemen. Come Lucy."
Later that same evening when most of the passengers had retired, the
Rev. Mr. Strong came up on deck again. He took off his cap so that the
breeze might blow unhindered through the thin, gray locks. He paced
slowly the length of the promenade deck with hands behind his back and
eyes alternatingly looking into the dark sky and to the deck at his
feet. The old man's usual erect form was bent a little as he walked, his
step broke occasionally from the rhythmatical tread. There was war in
the minister's soul. Conflicting emotions fought desperately for
ascendency. Memories of the past mingled with the scenes of the present,
and these became confused with the future. As a minister of the gospel
for half a lifetime, he had never had quite such a wildly disordered
mind. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. He groaned in spirit so
that moans escaped from his lips. The sea was beautifully still, but
rather would he have had it as wild and as boisterous as that which was
within his heart.
The man paused now and then at the rail. The Irish coast was not far
away, and the lights of ships could be seen, westward bound. The
minister tried to follow in his mind these little floating worlds; but
they were too slow. Like the lightning he crossed the Atlantic and then
with the same speed flew half way across the American continent to a
big, black, busy city roaring with the traffic of men. Then out a few
miles to the college, where he as a young divinity student had spent
some years of his early manhood--and there and then he had met
her--Also, years later, the woman whom he had married--and at each big
milestone in his journey of life there had been "Mormons" and
"Mormonism."
"'Mormonism,' 'Mormonism,'" the man whispered hoarsely.
"Anna--Clara--Lucy--Chester--and now--and now what! O, my God!"
It was nearly midnight when Lucy, becoming alarmed at her father's long
absence from his state room, came slowly on deck, stopping now and then
to rest. She saw him by the rail, went up to him, took him by the arm
and with a few coaxing words led him down into his room. As he kissed
her good-night with uncommon fervor, he looked into her upturned face
and said:
"Are you going to love this young man--Chester Lawrence?"
"Father," she cried, "what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I am not blind. I made him promise not to seek your
company or talk religion to you. Tomorrow I shall relieve him from that
promise."
"O, father!"
"There now, child,--and Lucy, he may talk of religion and love all he
wants. I think those two things, when they are of the right kind and
properly blended, are good for the heart, don't you?"
"Yes, thank you, dear daddy--we are so near England now that I may call
you daddy."
"Then good-night, my girl;" and he kissed her again in the doorway.