Story of Chester Lawrence

CHAPTER VI.

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.