The Unashamed Sailor

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Good Friday morning and welcome once more to the Parson Piper Podcast. Here at Week's End, we gather in the quiet with pipe in hand and scripture before us to walk the old paths again. We'll set our minds upon stories of holy writ, trace the faithful footsteps of Christ's church through the ages, and consider that call to return, simple, true, and steadfast. And as the ember glows, we'll speak a word or two of good leaf and honest blends, and the fine folk who keep the craft alive in shops near and far. So settle in now, take a breath, and let us begin. Come closer still, dear listener, closer than before. This is not any short telling. It is a long voyage, and I would have you settle as one who means to cross an ocean, not merely to stroll a shoreline. There are truths that reveal themselves only in time, and some only after a man has been broken of his own certainty. I was once a sailor, not a man of rank nor renown, but one of the many, hands calloused, back bent to labor, eyes trained to the horizon and the sky. And if you asked me then what I trusted, I might have given you a dozen answers. The ship beneath me, the captain above me, the crew beside me, but I would not have said openly, plainly that I trusted God, not because I did not believe, but because I feared to say so. Now I stand as a parson, and I tell you plainly, the greatest storms I faced were not of wind or in wave, but of silence and shame. And so we begin with the words of the apostle Paul written unto the believers in Rome Romans one verse sixteen for I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God unto salvation to everyone that believeth. We shall not pass over them lightly. We shall dwell in them as a sailor dwells in his vessel, leaning every timber, every line, every strength. Harbors are places of preparation, but also of illusion. Everything seems ordered, controlled, predictable. Ships are secured with thick lines, cargo is counted. Men move with purpose, but without urgency. And it is easy in such a place to believe oneself ready. So it was with me. I came to the sea with a boy's confidence and a man's borrowed convictions. I had heard sermons, memorized passages, nodded at truths that seemed plain enough when spoken from a pulpit, but the harbor does not test a man. It only receives him. The testing comes when he believes. Detesting comes when he leaves it. Yet even before we cast off, there was another testing, quieter, subtler, a testing of identity. Among the sailors there was an unspoken code. Strength is prized, weakness is scorned, and anything that sets a man apart invited scrutiny. Faith, especially spoken faith, set a man apart. And I, though I believed, did not wish to stand apart. So I learned the art of blending. I spoke as others spoke. I laughed when others laughed. I withheld what I knew might mark me. And here is the danger. I did not feel false. I felt prudent. I told myself there will be a better time. I must first earn their respect. I will speak later. But later later is a harbor that no ship ever reaches. And so without realizing it, I had begun a habit not of denying truth, but of delaying it. And delay when it comes to truth is often its quiet burial. A ship does not run aground in a moment, it drifts. So too does a man. I found that silence once chosen becomes easier with repetition. The first withheld word is difficult, the second less so, the third hardly even noticed. Soon silence feels natural, and with it comes subtle change, not in belief, but in boldness. Convictions once firm grow quiet. Certainties once clear grow dim in expression. I recall conversations where truth was bent, slightly at first, then more boldly, and I knew who knew better, said nothing. Why? Because I had come to value acceptance. To be counted among the crew was comfort. To risk that standing was a cost I hesitated to pay, and so I paid another cost instead. The cost of silence. Let me tell you plainly, dear listener, silence shapes a man. It teaches him what he is willing to withhold. It trains him in restraint where boldness is required. It convinces him that quiet compromise is harmless, but is not harmless, it is formative, and it was forming me into a man who believed but did not speak. There is no hour like the night watch. The world narrows, noise fades, pretense thins. Men who jest by day grow thoughtful by night. It was in such hours that I saw most clearly the hunger in others. One night, at deep in memory, a fellow sailor stood beside me. His face was lined, his hands worn, his eyes carrying the weight of many years. He spoke not of trade nor weather, but of death. I have seen men go over, he said. Just gone. One moment here the next nothing. Then he asked quietly, What do you reckon comes after? There it was not a challenge, not a jest. A door opened, and I, who had within me the truth, stood at that door and did not step through. I hesitated. I considered what might follow, questions, perhaps mockery, later, perhaps distance, and so I answered carefully, too carefully. I gave him words that neither offended nor helped, and he nodded and spoke no more. The moment closed, and I stood there knowing I had failed, not in knowledge, but in courage. Dear listener, hear me. Opportunities for truth are seldom announced. They come quietly, briefly, and if we are unprepared or unwilling, they pass. Then came the storm, not as a lesson, but as reality. The sea rose with a force that mocked our preparations. The wind drove against us without pity. Men moved quickly, but not confidently, for beneath every command was the knowledge this may not be enough. The ship groaned, the deck pitched, water broke over us with violent force, and in that chaos something became unmistakably clear. Everything we trusted had limits. The ship could fail, the crew could falter, strength could give way, and so men turned instinctively, desperately to God. Even those who had never spoke his name with reverence now called it aloud, and I who had hidden my faith in calm, could not keep it hidden then. So I prayed, not because it was expected, but because it was necessary. And in that moment I understood something that has never left me. Faith that is silenced, is in calm, will cry out in crisis, but it will do so with regret. Better to have spoken always, better to have stood firm before the storm than to find courage only when driven to it. The storm passed, but it left me changed. When I left the sea and turned to study and ministry, I encountered again the words of Paul. It is the power of God unto salvation, and I no longer read them as doctrine alone, but as lived truth, for I had seen what fails, and now I understood what does not. The gospel is not dependent upon strengths of those who carry it. It is not weakened by rejection. It is not diminished by silence, though we are diminished by withholding it. Its power, divine, effective, saving power. It reaches where no effort of man can reach. It restores what no hand can repair. It redeems what no price could otherwise reclaim. This is no mere message. It is God's means of salvation. And it is sufficient, utterly sufficient. The sea gathers men of all kinds. So does the gospel to everyone that believeth, no rank required, no past disqualifying, no barrier too great. But belief is not light. It is not a passing thought. It is a commitment. It is a stepping aboard, leaving behind the illusion of control and entrusting oneself fully to God. And once aboard, there is no standing apart. You are part of the voyage, part of the witness, called not only to receive but to speak. Now hear me again plainly. I have been silent, and I have regretted it. I have been fearful, and I have learned from it. I have known truth, and now I speak it. There is no wisdom in shame, no gain in silence, no honor in hiding what alone can save. So I ask you, will you remain quiet? Or will you go say with the apostle Paul, I am not ashamed of the gospel. Let it be your voice, your anchor, your course. Thus ends this deep water telling of episode three of our voyage from a sailor once silent, now a parson speaking, stand firm, speak boldly, and sail unashamed. Now stay with me, dear listener, do not yet leave the deck, for some might hear all this and say, Hey, that is well enough for sailors of old, for wooden ships and storm toss seas, but what of us who walk pavement and not planks? So I tell you plainly, the sea has not vanished. It has only changed its form. There are harbors yet, though they may not be filled with mass. They are offices, classrooms, gatherings of friends, and places where a man learns quickly what may be spoken and what must be softened. You know them well, places where truth is not denied outright, but made unwelcome, where conviction is not attacked, but quietly avoided, where faith is permitted so long as it remains private, and there just as on the old docks a man fills the same pool. Blend in, wait for a better moment. Do not risk the standing you have earned. And so the modern man says, as I once said, I will believe, but I will not speak, and beyond the harbor lies another sea, vast, restless, and without shore. You sail it daily, not with sail and rope, but with word and image, voices like waves, constant crashing, overlapping, opinions splash like lightning, bright, loud and soon gone, and in such a sea, truth is often not opposed, it is drowned. So a man thinks, what difference would my voice make? Why speak when so many speak already? Better to remain silent than to be swept into the storm. Yet I tell you, silence does not calm the sea, it only removes your light from it. But do not mistake it, the strongest wind has not changed. It is not culture, it is not opposition, it is not even misunderstanding. It is the fear of man, the fear of being thought strange, the fear of being excluded, the fear of being named, too bold, too certain, too different. This fear kept my tongue still on the deck, and it keeps many still today. But hear this and mark it well, those whose approval you fear most are themselves carried by currents they cannot control. They too face storms. They too wander in quiet hours. They too stand at times asking the very questions you have heard before, and if all remain silent, who shall answer? There are midnight watches still, not always beneath the stars, but in conversations, in moments of honesty, in questions spoken half in jest, but wholly in need, a coworker who wonders aloud about purpose, a friend who speaks lightly of death, but lingers on it longer than he intends, a stranger who opens a door with a question and waits. These are your watches, and the danger is the same as ever, to recognize the moment and let it pass, to know the truth and withhold it, to feel the pull to speak, and choose quiet instead. And I say to you, what I learned too late on many nights, moments like these are not accidents, they are entrusted. Now hear the greatest comfort and the greatest challenge. The world has changed, but the gospel has not. It is still, as the apostle Paul declared, the power of God unto salvation, not diminished by modern noise, not weakened by skepticism, not rendered irrelevant by time. It is still power, and it does not depend on your eloquence. It does not require perfect words. It does not wait for ideal conditions, it only requires it to be spoken. So what then shall we do? Not retreat, not rage, not hide, but stand quietly if need be, but clearly, humbly, but firmly, without pride, but without shame, to speak truth when it is needed, to answer when asked, to live in such a way that silence itself becomes impossible, for the unashamed life is not loud for its own sake, it is simply unwilling to hide what it knows to be true. And now I speak not as one who has mastered this early, but as one who learned it slowly. Do not wait for the storm to find your voice. Do not wait for fear to be removed before you speak. Do not wait for the perfect moment, for such moments rarely announce themselves. Speak in calm, so you need not find your voice in crisis. Stand in small things, so you will stand in great ones. And when the moment comes, as it surely will, be ready. So that when you say with the Apostle Paul, I am not ashamed of the gospel, it is not merely a line remembered, but a life lived. Let me share a poem with you before we leave. I mind the call that would not cease, though softer voices plead, for quieter tides and sheltered ways where safer feet are led. They spoke of calm and lesser winds and days without the strain, but still the deeper summons drew me out beyond their gain. For I have known the creeping drift that comes of silence kept, when truth lies still within the breast, and better words are slept. A man may walk in steady step and yet be turned aside. If fear has set in his inward course beneath a gentler tide, the sea is no respecter, friend of those who trim for ease. It finds the heart beneath the coat and tests it as it please. And what a man has within, though hidden long from sight, will rise as sure as storming wind upon the darkened night. So let them speak of safer roads and harbors close at hand, of measured speech and tempered truth that all may understand. I'll take the course that lies ahead, though rough the waters prove, for better far the honest gale than calm that will not move. There was a time I might have turned and sought the quieter shore to keep my peace among the crew and speak of truth no more. But once a man has faced a storm and seen what silence costs, he will not lightly choose again the ground where truth was lost. For what is the faith if kept below a cargo stowed from sight, unraised against the open sky, nor tried in wind and night? A sail unfurled is made to fill, to strain against the air, and faith, if it be living truth, must likewise venture there. Then set a mast and loose the line and let the canvas draw, the breath that drives both ship and soul beneath the higher law, for through the gale may press you soar, and waves may climb and fall. There is a strength that fills the sail and stands above it all, and when at last the voyage is done, and final port is near, you shall not stand with downcast gaze, nor yield to borrowed fear, but speak as one who held his course when winds would not avail. I was not once nor ever ashamed I sailed an unashamed sail. There is a tide coming, not seen, not hurried, but certain. It does not ask if you are ready, it does not wait for your comfort. It reveals what you truly trust and what you truly believe, what you were unwilling to say, the calm will not last, and when the storm comes, it will not test your words, it'll test your silence. So speak now, stand now, set your course now, for when the tide rises, only what is true will remain. Dear friend, our time has drawn gently near to its close. The pipe grows quiet, and the words we've shared linger just a while longer in the air. May the truths of scripture walk beside you in the days ahead, and may your heart be ever drawn back to the ancient path, simple, faithful and sure. We meet together here each week on Friday mornings. So I bid you return again, where story, church, and quiet reflection await you once more. Until then, if so inclined, keep your pipe well tended, and your mind set on good things, and your soul steadfast. This is the Parson Piper Podcast, of grace and peace be with you until we meet again.