O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing
Shortly before the end of last year I found myself at Bunhill Fields Cemetery, the resting place of many notable Puritans, Calvinists, and Methodists. The words of the old hymn “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” passed through my lips as tears crested the corners of my eyes.
My wife and I were on vacation, and I’d chosen to come here. As it turns out, I’m not quite as good at planning exciting romantic vacations as I am at singing in graveyards. I began to wander as my wife started a sketch of an old tree that had broken through the fencing around a section of the graveyard. I started to read every headstone I could make out. Many of the saints you have likely heard of. Saints such as John Owen, Thomas Brooks, and Isaac Watts were all laid to rest right here, but their headstones had proven unable to fend off the effects of the centuries or were otherwise inaccessible.
As I walked I was surprised to find encouragement from headstones commemorating long-forgotten saints. These told tales of faith which had led them to give up everything to serve their church, to extend hands of friendship, to preach the gospel of Christ, to exemplify Christian fatherhood and motherhood, to feed the hungry, to clothe the poor, and a host of other good deeds I could only hope to see in the wider church today. The voice of the preacher rose up to meet me as I recalled his words of encouragement, “Therefore, since we also have such a large cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us lay aside every hindrance and the sin that so easily ensnares us. Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us” (Heb. 12:1).
Facing Glaring Differences
I chewed on the words and their consequences. As I looked around, I knew many who were here would have thought very differently on, let’s say, the doctrines of grace than I do. Many would have contrary views too on the gifts of the Spirit or the sacraments. As I continued to stroll, I was struck by how little those second-tier doctrinal differences mattered to me. I had no reason to doubt that any whose body had ended up here now found themselves worshipping before the Father. But what would I think if they all suddenly ended up on my Twitter feed, warts and all? What if their theological convictions were laid bare for our modern Christian audience to read, chew on, and spit back out?
“I had no reason to doubt that any whose body had ended up here now found themselves worshipping before the Father.”
The words of Hebrews spoke of the many witnesses I was presently surrounded by—the ones who had finished their earthly journey and had now moved on—but what about the ones the ones with whom I was currently in fellowship? I confess that though I believe in the local church and my heart is for it, my predisposition is to search for treasure among those who have long passed before I begin to look for it in those around me.
Sinking Under the Pressure of Years
As I meditated on my predicament, I found myself beneath a statue of John Wesley. It was after all his chapel which stood beyond the gates. I was only a few feet below him, but it felt like it could have been miles. I thought on his relationship with Whitefield—a tale of two brothers of differing convictions, both at odds, but with the greatest love for one another, drawn from their shared love of the Lord. It was a frighteningly relevant exemplification of what was often absent in my heart. Were I Whitfield, what—I wonder—would I have done?
As I made my way back to find my wife, I came across a stone far greater than all the others with a pillar rising high above it. The text was still perfectly legible. “Nettle shall skirt the base of this monument, and the moss obliterate this feeble testimonial of Affection. Finally, sinking under the pressure of years this Pillar will fall [and dust shall cover it].”
It was odd.
This stone articulated just how short the lives of memories really are and with what ferocity time swallows up anything which might preserve them. The words themselves seemed to stand up to the sands of time and to refuse to bow to them.
Bearing Through Differences
Has our ability to bear with one another in love, to serve alongside those who differ from us on secondary issues, to live with them and even be buried beside them been stolen by time? Was it now skirted with nettles, collapsing under its own weight, covered by dust? I hoped not. I hoped instead that we would seek God in prayer for preservation only he could provide. My lungs filled with air, and as I stood at the grave of the pilgrim John Bunyan I started to sing.
“O for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise!”
Charles Wesley’s words flooded my mouth. I didn’t care who heard, I had to praise the Lord. The saints whose graves surrounded me had of course beaten me to the punch. They’d been singing for a couple of centuries already. I joined in, as it were.
“My gracious Master and my God, assist me to proclaim,
to spread through all the earth abroad the honours of thy name.”
Leaning on His Strength
I need the Lord’s help.
We need the Lord’s help.
If it could, the world would ally itself to the sands of time, corroding the ties which bind us as believers. The deceiver constantly works to compel us to see one another’s faults, failings, and feuds before we even think to follow Jesus’s command that we would love another. And at that moment, I was brought to the point of tears as I realized the immensity of my shortcoming in this regard.
“Jesus! the name that charms our fears, that bids our sorrows cease,
‘tis music in the sinner’s ears, ‘tis life and health and peace.”
He was the answer, not me. I threw myself upon the mercy of the Lord and my lips began to smile. Through tears of sorrow, tears of joy were born.
“He breaks the power of cancelled sin; he sets the prisoner free;
his blood can make the foulest clean; his blood availed for me.”
Singing With One Voice
“Maybe I can cease to shudder when someone I bump elbows with at the communion table commits the “heinous” sin of disagreeing with me.”
If I take the time to recall the sin from which I was rescued—sin I’m not eager to recall—and am honest with myself even for a moment, what right would I believe myself to have to stand as judge over my brothers and sisters? If I believe God can set prisoners free and wash clean the foulest slate, maybe I can cease to shudder when someone I bump elbows with at the communion table commits the “heinous” sin of disagreeing with me about gender roles, the rapture, or the mark of the beast.
“To God, all glory, praise, and love be now and ever given
by saints below and saints above, the Church in earth and heaven.”
The saints above were singing with me, will you? The glory belongs to God alone, not to us. We’re not the Most High, he is. If he has called you son or daughter, can you call me brother?
As I went back to join my wife, I found she had not yet finished her sketch of the tree. I peered over her shoulder to get a better look at it. I wished I would be like a leaf from that tree at Bunhill Fields, a product of a mighty oak who’d been nourished by ground that remembered the lives of many saints. My life, my leaf, though momentary, would be one of many and surrounded by many witnesses. It would bask in the light of the Son for a time before falling to join its kin at the base of the tree, making room for younger leaves.
We do not have many family trees—a Baptist tree, a Pentecostal tree, a Calvinist tree, and so on. We have one tree. Saints of old sit at its base while younger ones grow from its branches.
Adsum Ravenhill is married to Anna and together they are passionate about seeing young men and women discipled within the context of the local church. You can find Adsum through his writing at The Raven’s Writing Desk and alongside Anna as the co-host of the Consider the Ravens Podcast.