The Foghorn in the Dark

Intro:

"Hidden Past" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Outro:

"Galway" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Good Friday morning. Now, if you will come in again this morning, good friend, and sit with me awhile, I shall tell you another tale of the sea. This time not of the lighthouse, nor of the anchor beneath the waves, but of something heard long before it is seen. The morning has come gray today, the windows carry a pale color of sky. Still deciding whether it means to rain, the room is quiet. The shelves stand still in the dim light. A chair waits near the corner. You may take it. My pipe is lit slowly, not hurried, not forced. The smoke rises soft through the room, like the mist lifting over the cold Atlantic water, and for a moment nothing is said, because what we are about to consider belongs first to silence. Welcome to the Parson Piper Podcast. If you have a pipe near at hand, you may take it a moment, pack it slow, tamp it down, and light it if you're so inclined. Not because the pipe matters in itself, but because the slowing down does. Now come on, sit a spell. There are mornings when the sea disappears, not literally of course. The water remains where it always was. The rocks remain sharp beneath it, the shoals remain waiting, but the fog comes down so thick that the world itself seems erased. And on such mornings, even seasoned fishermen grow quiet. Now there was once an old fisherman out of Gloucester, a man whose face was marked by salt, wind, and forty years upon the Atlantic. His hands were rough as rope, his voice worn low from years of shouting over surf, and every morning before dawn he would rise from the same narrow house near the harbor, and every morning before dawn he would rise from the same narrow house near the harbor, pull on the same heavy wool sweater, and walk toward the docks carrying a lantern. Now young men admired him not because he spoke much, but because he returned. Again and again, storm after storm, he knew the sea, or at least he knew enough to fear it properly. Now there is wisdom in that, for the sea punishes arrogance quickly, the Atlantic especially. There are waters that fill alive in their anger, waters that seem to resent a man's presence upon them, and old fishermen knew this. They do not romanticize the ocean. They respect it. Now this old fisherman had buried friends, men swallowed in winter storms, men lost in sudden squalls, men whose boats returned without them, and though he still loved the sea, he no longer trusted it. That is an important distinction, for there are things a man may appreciate deeply. While understanding fully they cannot save them. While understanding fully they cannot save him. One autumn morning he and his two younger decans pushed out before sunrise. The harbor had been clear where they departed, cold but manageable, and for a while the sea was kind enough. The boat cut through the black water where gulls circled overhead crying in the dawn. The old fisherman stood near the elm, with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, not tense, not careless, just attentive, and now again he would glance upward toward the sky, because old sailors learn to read things younger men overlook. The smell of weather, the shape of clouds, the shift of wind. There are warnings God places into creation that impatient men ignore. Now by mid morning the fog began to come. At first it moved in thin strands across the water, then thicker. Then all at once the world vanished. The shoreline disappeared entirely. The gulls were gone. The horizon ceased to exist, and one of the younger deckhands muttered softly, feels like we're going nowhere, and that's exactly what fog does. It removes reference. Now understand this carefully. The danger of fog is not merely that a man cannot see, it is that he begins to lose certainty, direction, position. A man may continue moving forward, and yet no longer know where he is going. Now that is true spiritually as well. There are seasons in life where clarity seems to disappear, moments where the familiar shoreline vanishes, moments where certainty grows dim, and many men panic there, not because God has abandoned them, but because they have lost sight of reference. Now hear this carefully. A man without reference will drift without realizing it. And drift is dangerous precisely because it feels gradual. No man wakes up one morning planning to abandon truth. He drifts. One compromise, one neglected prayer, one ignored scripture, one step away from faithful people, and slowly slowly the shoreline disappears. Now the younger men aboard that vessel began speaking louder, faster, trying to think their way through uncertainty. But the old fisherman said very little. Instead he listened, and after a long moment, through all that gray silence came a sound. Low, deep, steady. A fog horn somewhere beyond the mist, not loud in the way thunder is loud, not dramatic, but unmistakable. The younger men froze, and the old fisherman nodded once. There it is. Now mark that carefully, because the fog horn did not remove the fog. It gave direction within it. Now let us turn to the word. In John ten verse twenty seven Christ says My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. Now consider that carefully, not merely hear sounds. Hear his voice, recognize it, follow it. Now sheep know something sailors know also. In confusion the right voice matters more than many voices. Now we live in an age filled with voices, political voices, cultural voices, social voices, endless opinions, endless outrage, endless noise. And the great danger of noise is that eventually a man forgets what truth sounds like. Now the old fisherman turned the wheel slowly, not guessing, listening. The Balgorn sounded again long, low, steady, and though they could not yet see shore, they now knew where shore was. Now consider another word. In Psalm one hundred nineteen, verse one hundred and five. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. Notice not a floodlight for the entire journey, a lamp. Enough light for the next faithful step. Now many people demand from God completely, visibly before obedience, but faith has never worked that way. God often gives enough light for the next step only, and then asks a man to trust him. That is difficult for proud people, because pride wishes to command the future. But faith follows. Now after some time the old fisherman finally saw it, faint at first through the fog. The outline of the shore Dark Rocks. Arbor post home. And one of the younger men let out a breath he had been holding for hours. Now the old fisherman said something then that stayed with that young man all his life. The sea lies to you in fog, he said, but the horn does not. Now there is wisdom in that because feelings will lie to a man. Because feelings will lie to a man. Fear will lie, crowds will lie, culture will lie, but truth does not and Christ does not. Now we must speak plainly here. There is a kind of fog over the modern world. A moral fog, a spiritual fog. There are some men that no longer know what truth is, or rather some no longer believe truth stays fixed. Everything now is treated as shifting, flexible, personal, and when truth becomes flexible, people drift. Now the tragedy is this. Many do not realize they are drifting until they hear the rocks beneath them. Now hear the warning of Scripture. In Ephesians the fourth chapter, the fourteenth verse, that we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine. That is fog language, drift language, movement without certainty. And Paul says plainly God did not intend for his people to live that way. Now perhaps some among you this morning feel uncertain, not rebellious, not hardened, just tired, confused, maybe even just overwhelmed. You pray, yet clarity feels distant. You read, yet fog still hangs low. Then hear this carefully. The answer is not louder panic. It is quieter listening. Because the voice of Christ does not disappear in fog. Men simply stop listening for it. Now the old fishermen knew something the younger men did not. Panic makes a poor compass, and fear causes men to steer wildly. But the fog horn remained steady. It did not alter itself for frightened sailors. It simply sounded again and again and again. Now the harbor finally emerged in full. The fog still clung to the sea, but the way home had become visible enough, and as the boat slipped safely into the harbor, the young deckhands were quieter than before, changed somehow, because men who survive fog learn respect. Now perhaps that's what some of us need. Not more confidence in ourselves, but greater confidence in the one whose voice remains steady, for Christ has not changed. His word has not changed, truth has not shifted, and though the world grows dim at times, the voice still stands. Clear, steady, true. Now before you rise this morning, consider this carefully. What voices have we been following? And among all the noise surrounding us, can we still recognize his? Because what a man listens to repeatedly, he will eventually follow. Now if you would hear that voice more clearly, return to his word, not occasionally, but daily, quietly, attentively, a place where the voice of Scripture is not drowned beneath opinion, but spoken plainly. And so, good friend, as the gray morning begins to lift, I'll leave you with this. The fog will come. There will be seasons where the way ahead feels uncertain. But there is a voice, steady, true, unchanging, and if you will follow it, you will not be lost. Until we sit again, keep your heart open, stay rooted, and listen carefully for what is true. This has been the Parson Piper Podcast, where we slow down, think deeply, and hold fast to what is true. May the truth 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 wait you once more. Until then, keep your pipe well tended if you're so inclined, your mind set upon good things, and your soul steadfast. This is the Parson Piper Podcast. Grace and peace be with you until we meet again.