DEATH AND HEAVEN
By Gardiner Spring
A Sermon Preached at Newark, at the Interment of the
Rev. Edward D. Griffin, on the 10th of November, 1837
"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle
were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens" 2 Corinthians 5:1.
"Come!" said the celebrated Addison, just before his
death, to the youthful and dissipated Earl of Warwick, "Come, see how a
Christian can die." Death is the foe of man; but it is the glory of the
Gospel that it teaches us how we may meet this last enemy with triumph. When
the Savior was on his way to the grave of Lazarus, he proclaimed, I am the
resurrection and the life; if a man believe in me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live; and he that lives and believes in me shall never die! Though
not destroyed, already is death virtually abolished. The death of
death was realized in the death of Christ. In the memorable hour when he
hung on Calvary, he took away the strength of the law, and extracted the
sting of death. And when he rose, death was swallowed up in victory. The
believer lives under a constitution of grace, and under that constitution he
dies. To the last hour of his mortal career, the memorials of his weakness
are blended with the emblems of his victory. Sin reigns unto death; but
grace reigns through righteousness, unto eternal life, by Jesus Christ our
Lord. The "dread passage of the tomb" is lost in the brightness of the
prospect beyond it; so that all through the dark valley, with exulting
confidence, he may say, For we know that if our earthly house of this
tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with
hands, eternal in the heavens!
Such was the triumph of the primitive Christians. Nor was
it theirs alone to experience the power and preciousness of the Gospel in
the immediate prospect of eternity. To the long and bright catalogue of
names, which, like a cloud of witnesses to the hopes and consolations of the
Christian in a dying hour, another is added in the name of that beloved and
venerated man, whose death is the occasion of this discourse, and at whose
request I now address you. Let us, preparatory to this last token of respect
which we take so much pleasure in paying to his memory, turn our attention
to a brief analysis of the passage of Holy Scripture selected to give some
direction to our thoughts on this occasion.
"For we know, that if our earthly house of this
tabernacle were DISSOLVED." When the disciples beheld the splendor of the
ancient temple, its just proportions, its massive walls, its towering
height, and exclaimed with astonishment, See what manner of stones and
buildings are these; their Master replied to them only by a prediction of
its speedy fall. 'Do you see these buildings? There shall not be left one
stone upon another that shall not be thrown down.' The earthly house of this
tabernacle shall be thrown down. The keepers of it shall tremble, and the
strong men shall bow themselves. However fair, and beautiful, and vigorous,
nothing can shield it from decay. The head that is crowned with honor must
lie low. The eye that beams with sensibility and intelligence must become
dim. The tongue shall become mute that moves with powerful and melting
persuasion. The warm and throbbing heart shall become still and cold as
marble. Wherever we cast our eyes, we see all that is excellent marked by
imperfection; all that is most permanent hastening to decay. Disease springs
up in every climate; death multiplies his victims under every sky, and
reigns over every age of time. We sicken, and die, and moulder away in the
grave. Dust you are, and unto dust shall you return. The building is
dissolved. Man dies and wastes away; yes, man gives up the spirit, and where
is he?
Life is a mystery– from the flower that blooms on the
valley, to the highest forms of conscious and intelligent existence. But
what shall we say of death? Life, clothed with sensation, thought, and
activity, was the last and highest act of the Creator’s power. But death —
that mysterious change which defaced the beauty of this living creation, and
breaks in pieces this most excellent monument of divine wisdom —what is it,
but one of the highest and most striking proofs of the omnipotency of God,
which spares not this his noblest work? See this beautiful vase dashed and
broken! The silver cord is loosed. The golden bowl is broken. The pitcher is
broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern. Look for that
fair edifice which but now reared itself in beauty and splendor, and the eye
sees nothing but its fallen ruins. Not a vestige of its fair proportions
remains. The living inhabitant that once occupied it, is gone to some
distant world; and the once beautified, adorned mansion is already beginning
to be decomposed, and returning to its original dust. Nothing but desolation
and decay are visible, and the stillness of death reigns throughout its
deserted chambers.
Man has no power to ward off the stroke of death. The
monuments of human enterprise are found in costly pyramids and lofty
temples; in battles that have deluged the earth with blood, and in cities
and empires that have withstood the desolations of time. But there is no
memorial of power and genius that have erected a barrier before the tomb.
Barbarous nations have been civilized by man. The fields of science have
been explored by his wisdom and industry. By his authority over the
elements, he has compassed earth and ocean, and well near annihilated space.
But with all his capacity for great and noble achievement, he has never been
able to enlarge the boundaries of human life, or rescue a single victim from
the King of Terrors. Death’s arrows are sharp. His hand is unerring and
ruthless. The giant stalks unseen, and throughout all the vast arena of his
conflicts, none can resist, or evade his ravages. We may weep. We may
tremble. But we cannot escape his fury.
But does the history of man terminate in the tomb? Is
death an eternal sleep? Is the grave a world of everlasting oblivion? Are
the darkness and silence of the sepulcher the last traces of this once busy
and active creation? Are the triumphs of the King of Terrors never to be
arrested? May we conjecture nothing? Do we know nothing that relates to our
final and ultimate destiny? Then are we, of all beings, the most miserable.
Did the all-wise, all-powerful and good God, frame and fit up this earthly
house, and make it the residence of a thinking, living inhabitant, endued
with such strong and restless desires after immortality- such noble
faculties and vast capacities of intellect- and open to him such an
unlimited range of view throughout the immensity of space and duration- all
to be extinguished in the grave? Has he invested this sensitive existence
with the noblest moral powers, and inwoven in his constitution, principles
and affections, which mark his dignity and grandeur, and indicate his
destination to some high scene of action and enjoyment, merely to slumber
under the clods of the valley?
Then is man the most inexplicable phenomenon in the
universe. Then is his existence an unfathomable mystery, and the end for
which he was created an enigma never to be unraveled. Has the Mighty Creator
imparted beauty, order, and harmony, to the material creation, and left the
moral creation such a scene of disorder and anarchy? Shall the smallest
seed, after dying in the earth, shoot forth its umbrageous branches?—shall
the lowest reptile, after ingeniously forming its own winding-sheet, and
burying itself in its own self-formed sepulcher, burst its clod, unfold its
wings, and come forth the beautified inhabitant of other regions?—while man
lies buried in the darkness and desolation of the tomb? Then is every thing
wrapped in obscurity in the world in which we dwell, and the conduct of the
Great Being who presides over the affairs of the universe, shrouded in
impenetrable darkness.
I find no such gloomy considerations as these when I look
into the Bible. The confirmations and illustrations of a future state are
inwoven with the whole scope and design of the divine Oracles, and comprise
the sum and substance of their revelations. I turn to these sacred pages,
and learn that there are those to whom death is the vestibule to heaven.
There I discover a world of immortality and joy. I know that the earthly
house of this tabernacle must be dissolved, but am assured of a building of
God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
It is a delightful thought, when we deposit in their last
earthly rest the dust of those who lived and died in Christ, that the next
event in their history will be their acquittal before the throne, and their
welcome to the heavenly kingdom. No sooner are their souls removed from this
mouldering tenement, than they have a habitation beyond the skies. They go
from earth to heaven.
A building is there fitted up for their residence. They
inhabit a mansion that has a local existence as really as the earth on which
we dwell. There God himself dwells more visibly and gloriously than in any
other part of the universe. There is the residence of angels. There the
Savior ascended when he left this world, and there he lives and reigns.
Enoch and Elijah occupy that glorious mansion, and thence descended on the
holy mount. All the redeemed will inhabit it. In what part of the universe
this great building is erected no tongue of mortals can tell. Perhaps
somewhere beyond the regions of this solar system, the Almighty has
established this glorious high throne- this third heavens, this high and
holy place. Nor can we doubt that it is a scene of loveliness, of
magnificence and splendor, worthy of its Divine Author, and the everlasting
abode of the highest and purest of spirits in the universe.
It is a building of God. God himself is the mighty
architect. It was planned by him. By him it was finished and fitted up, to
be the residence of all who love him. He presides over it; everywhere
dispensing light, purity, and joy, in fullness and perfection. Unutterable
as they are, its glories are nothing without him. The immediate and visible
presence of its God and King constitutes its blessedness. In his presence is
fullness of joy; at his right hand are pleasures forevermore. The presence
and contemplation of the Great God will afford ample enjoyment to the mind
forever.
It is a house not made with hands—a mansion far superior
to any which the mind of man ever devised, and a significant monument of the
power, wisdom, and love of its author. It went up silently—unheard—almost
unseen. At his word, at the omnipotent expression of his will, it emerged
from nothing into existence. He spoke, and it was done; he commanded; and it
stood fast. Without the aid of any other power, without violence, or effort,
without confusion an without noise, he called it into being and garnished it
with all its glories. It is eminently a spiritual world. There is no Temple
there; for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the Temple of it. The
luminaries that shed their luster on this terrestrial globe shall not shine
there; for there shall be no need of the Sun, nor of the moon to shine in
it, for the glory of the Lord shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the
light thereof.
The verdure and fruits of this lower creation shall not
be found there; for they shall all be forgotten in the overshadowing beauty
and perennial fruits of the 'Tree of Life'. The streams which refresh and
vivify this earth shall not flow there; for in heaven is the pure river of
water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the
Lamb.
It is a new heaven and new earth, wherein dwells
righteousness. There is nothing there that defiles. Every subject of this
celestial empire is as holy as its King is holy; every child in that
heavenly family is perfect as its Father in heaven is perfect. Holy beings
are in their element there—in a holy atmosphere—with holy associates—all
constituting one immense and harmonious society; a glorious church, not
having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.
And they will be as happy as they are holy. The highest
pleasures of intellect will be combined with the purest pleasures of the
heart; the sweetest pleasures of solitude with the most expanded pleasures
of society, everywhere reciprocal, everywhere beaming with smiles and
sparkling with joy. No heart shall be wrung with disappointment and anguish;
no countenance dejected with melancholy; no eye heavy with sorrow, or dim
with tears. No needs will there remain to be supplied; no dangers to be
averted; no concerns to be relieved; for the former things are passed away.
And this building is also eternal in the heavens. Its
walls are reared by omnipotence and truth; its vast foundations laid deep in
the unchanging purposes of God. His eye alone can compass its wonderful
magnitude, for it stretches over boundless space. His mind alone can span
its vast duration, for it exists forever. Time will not impair it, for time
will be no more. Eternity will not move its foundations, for they are based
upon the Rock of Ages. No foe will scale its ramparts, for God himself is
its defense and glory. Storms and tempests will not assail it, for they have
no escape from that imprisoned world, where, with all evil elements they
have been banished. It stands, a building of God, a house not made with
hands, eternal in the heavens. There is not a source of celestial joy, but
will be everlasting; not a mind in heaven whose capacities and anticipations
will not "spread and flourish to all eternity." The inheritance is
incorruptible, undefiled, and that fades not away—a continuing city—an
everlasting habitation.
Paul could say, we have this inheritance. Already
are we possessors of it. We stand upon its threshold. We know that it is
ours. Wonderful assurance! for a man who confesses that of sinners he is the
chief. But not more wonderful than true. There is a glorious peculiarity in
the convictions that are the result of revealed truth. They are not
conjecture; they are not doubt and uncertainty; they are not the hopes and
fears of an alternately confiding and suspicious mind. Nor are they
conclusions deduced from the strong preponderance of probabilities. They are
truth and certainty. For WE KNOW, that if our earthly house of this
tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with
hands, eternal in the heavens.
I would be slow to affirm, that "assurance is of the
essence of faith." The trembling hope, and agitating fear of many an humble
child of God may not always be the result of unbelief. And yet, where doubt
and hesitation exist, they may be almost always attributed to some sinful,
or unnecessary cause. The Scriptures, if I read them aright, justify, and
even require of the people of God a strong and unwavering confidence that
heaven will be their final abode. This is their duty and privilege. Not that
that holy and happy world is the object of their senses; for they have never
seen it, and have no such speculative discernment of it as they have of
external objects. Not that they always had the same apprehensions of it
which they now have; for their corrupt affections once rendered them blind
to spiritual and holy objects, nor could they know them, because they are
spiritually discerned. There is a stronger ground of confidence than sense,
or reason; and that is the veracity of God. Sense and reason may deceive us.
The testimony of our fellow-men may deceive us. But God cannot mistake; God
cannot lie. Whatever he declares we know must be truth. His word is the
foundation of a faith that is unwavering.
Faith in God gives reality and palpableness to the
objects of hope, presence to what is future, and appearance and
perspicuousness to what is not perceptible. It is the substance of things
hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen. The believer implicitly
confides in all that God has revealed, not only concerning the existence and
blessedness of heaven, but concerning the method of mercy by his Son. That
wonderful redemption he no more doubts it than he doubts his own existence.
God has given Him to be sin for us who knew no sin, that we might be made
the righteousness of God in him. On this corner stone, this tried stone,
this eternal Rock, he casts the anchor of his hope. He knows whom he has
believed, and is persuaded that he is able to keep that which he has
committed to him against that day. Through him, who is Our Righteousness,
God has promised to pardon, sanctify, sustain in holiness, raise from the
dead, justify before his throne, deliver from deserved wrath, and advance to
heaven, all who believe in this appointed Mediator.
Good men trust in the divine faithfulness. They behold
the promises afar off, and are persuaded of them, and embrace them. Though
an ensnaring world and a faithless heart may assail and endeavor to subvert
their confidence, they well know that the arm of omnipotence is made bare
to execute what immutable truth has engaged. Difficulties they may see
on every side; dangers they may fear from without and from within; but no
weapon formed against them shall prosper. Nothing shall separate them from
the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus their Lord. With a faith that
purifies the heart and exerts a transforming, practical influence, they
receive the testimony of God, and believe to the salvation of their souls.
And they themselves may know that they have thus
believed. There is, in the nature of the case, no foundation for doubt or
hesitation as to the reality of the work of the Holy Spirit upon the heart.
It is his province to take of the things that are Christ’s, and show them
unto us. "There is a wide difference between the knowledge of Jesus Christ
and every other sort of knowledge." There is a wide difference between the
fruits of the Spirit, and the works of the flesh; between the supreme love
of God and the supreme love of self, and the world; between the faith that
lives, and the faith that is founded on presumption, and is dead. The grace
which forms in the mind of man the character, which makes him to differ from
a world that lies in wickedness, conferred as it is in execution of an
unchangeable purpose, and with the view of preparing it for the glory to be
revealed, cannot fail of producing an observable effect. Where conscience is
neither bribed, nor embarrassed in her judgment, men may know whether they
have the faith of the Gospel, or the faith of devils, and whether they are
alive in Christ, or dead in sin. Paul had remaining corruptions; but they
did not prove that he had no saving knowledge of Christ. Many a time was he
constrained to exclaim, O, wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from
the body of this death! While many a time he could shout the triumph, I
thank God, who gives me the victory through Jesus Christ my Lord!
The disciples of the Savior have an earnest of heaven
already within them. They enjoy it by anticipation. God has given to them
his Spirit as a pledge of their future felicity and glory. They have a part
already, and expressly given as a seal and security that in due time they
shall be put in complete and entire possession of the whole. Holiness is
essentially the same thing on earth that it is in heaven. The fruits of the
Spirit, so often gathered on this valley of tears, are the same with those
which grow in richer and riper clusters on Mount Zion above. Every gracious
affection is the germ of heaven. As it came from heaven, so it conducts to
heaven. The Spirit of God has left an impression on the minds of his people,
never to be obliterated; an impression as deep and varied as the image of
their Heavenly Father.
The rough features of the old man, with its affections
and lusts, are gradually worn away, and the growing lineaments of the new
man are marked with unusual distinctness, and clothed with unearthly beauty.
The kingdom of God is within them. They have a heaven-directed, as well as
heaven-born mind. Their thoughts and affections are heavenward. They
maintain, though not an invariable, yet an habitually upward tendency. They
are heavenly in their temper, and spirit, and aims. Their treasure is in
heaven, and their hearts are there. As they look around upon this desert
world, they see nothing worthy of an anxious wish. It is a soothing
reflection to them, that here they have no continuing city, and that this
barren earth is not the place where the heirs of glory should dwell.
Habitually do they hunger and thirst after righteousness. Often is it their
privilege to enjoy peculiar nearness to God; and as their path draws nearer
to the promised land, and their views become insensibly blended with the
scarcely brighter visions of the heavenly world, you may hear them say, For
we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have
a building from God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
Do you wonder then, while we say, Come see how a
Christian can die! Listen to that song of triumph. Hear that holy man, when
earth and earthly things are sinking around him, and he has every thing to
fear from the fury of his persecutors, calmly exclaim, I am now ready to be
offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good
fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith. Henceforth, there
is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous
judge, will give me at that day, and not to me only, but to all those who
love his appearing!
Go to the dying couch of Payson. Hear him say, "The
battle’s fought, and the victory’s won—won forever! God is literally now my
all in all. I have no tears to shed but those of love, joy, and
thankfulness!" The noblest and the weakest believer rest on the same
foundation, and have but one hope. "I cannot say," said a child of God, as
he was addressing himself to the dark valley, "that I have so lived as not
to be afraid to die; but I can say, that I have so known Christ as not to be
afraid to die." Such is the hope of the believer. And with such a hope he
can plunge into eternity. And nothing, beloved hearers, but such a hope can
sustain you in a dying hour. To know what death is, and yet meet it with
composure, is the privilege only of the Christian. He only connects a
distinct view of death in all its portentous consequences, with a fearless
anticipation of its approach. The thoughtless worldling may not always
die in despair. But his hopes are suspicious; they are blind; they are
groundless; and they perish when God takes away his soul.
Hope, to be full of consolation, must be intelligent and
firm. It must be the sweet composure of a child of God, who speaks of his
approaching dissolution, as he would speak of going home. Death is a dark
day to the vanquished sinner; but it is the bright moment of the Christian
conqueror’s triumph. While every thing that is mortal within him shrinks and
perishes at the approach of this terrific foe, here the power of the
destroyer ends. Over that which is immortal, he has no control. This body is
his to unnerve and paralyze, and deliver over to his hideous attendant, dark
corruption; but the soul is beyond his reach. His cheek is pale. His lips
tremble; but not with despair, not with fear. Death and sin are making their
assault upon his outward form, his covering of clay, and with furious
outrage, for it is their last. But within all is peace. Hope is there
enthroned strong and steadfast, unshaken and unmoved, until it give place to
a full, perfect, and present certainty of holiness and joy.
From the design of this discourse, it is no doubt
expected that I should inform you how the Redeemer honored and supported in
the last conflict, his once afflicted, but now glorified servant, whose
lifeless body lies here before us. You will expect, too, on an occasion like
the present, that I should furnish you with some brief notices of a life so
endeared to us all, and so faithfully and actively devoted to his Master’s
service.
Edward Dorr Griffin was born at East-Haddam, in the
State of Connecticut, on the 6th day of January, 1770. He was educated at
Yale-College, where he graduated in 1790. He excelled in every department of
study, and attained the first station in his class. Upon leaving college, he
superintended, for a few months, an academy at Derby, a pleasant village not
far from the college. There he was attacked by a severe illness, which
confined him several weeks. This was an important era in his life. During
these weeks of illness, his character underwent a change. His early
religious education, and his serious reflections and prayers during his
sickness, were made the power of God to his salvation. Then it was, as have
reason to believe, that he passed from death unto life.
Like the apostle of the Gentiles, he was a chosen vessel
unto God, to bear the unsearchable riches of his grace to a dying world.
Drawn by the cords of love to the cross of the Redeemer, he arose from this
bed of sickness an altered man; and from that memorable period, the prayer
of his heart was, Lord, what will you have me to do? The study of law, which
had been his favorite object, was abandoned. His aspirations were directed
to a higher pursuit.
Shortly after this, in the spring of 1792, he united
himself with the church in Derby, and publicly avowed himself the disciple
of the meek and lowly Jesus. He pursued the study of theology under the care
of the Jonathan Edwards, then the distinguished pastor of the church in
New-Haven, and was licensed to preach on the first of November, about six
months after he had united himself with God’s visible people.
In the fall of the year eighteen hundred, he removed to
Orange, in the State of New-Jersey, where he spent about six months; had
about fifty souls given him as the seals of his ministry, and where his name
has always been honored. In the spring following, he received a call from
the first Presbyterian Church in Newark, in the same State, where he was
settled for several years as colleague Pastor with the venerable Dr.
McWhorter, with whom he lived in undisturbed fellowship, and to whom he paid
the last sad offices of respect and love, as to his departed father. Here he
labored amid many a scene of wonders, and was everywhere surrounded with his
spiritual children whom he loved as his own soul. These scenes will never be
forgotten. They were scenes of triumph, where one had chased a thousand, and
two put ten thousand to flight. Many a time did the Spirit of Jesus, here in
this house of God, where that tongue is now silent in death, move the great
assembly as the trees of the woods are moved by a mighty wind.
In the year eighteen hundred and eight, Dr. Griffin, for
he had then received this title from one of the distinguished colleges in
our country, was removed to a wider sphere of usefulness. The Theological
Institution at Andover had just been established, and the evangelical church
in Park-street, in Boston, had been newly erected. Dr. Griffin, with great
unanimity was solicited to fill at once the pulpit of the church, and the
chair of Professor of Sacred Rhetoric in the Theological School. It would be
hard to name the man so well qualified for this important trust. There was
but one sentiment in the minds of the students, and the churches in relation
to his unequaled qualifications for this responsible office. He occupied a
wide place at Andover, and when he left the Seminary, there was a chasm
which all who knew him felt that no living man could fill. It was no common
trial to his pupils that he vacated the professor’s chair. To his unchanging
friend and patron, who nominated him to that office, it was one of the
severest trials of his life. The individual who addresses you, was one of a
class of about thirty, who first enjoyed the benefit of his instructions;
and though many of them have fallen asleep, those who remain, feel a deep
and filial interest on this mournful occasion. Many are the tears they will
shed over his grave; while with one accord, they bear testimony to the
ability and success with which he fulfilled the duties of his office. For
myself, I feel that I have lost a second father. It was owing to his
instrumentality, that I occupy the sphere of usefulness which I have been
permitted so long to occupy. Nor shall I ever forget the tender and
affectionate interest he has uniformly taken in all my course, both as a
man, and a minister of the gospel.
In point of talents the deceased might have claimed
brotherhood with the first class that our country has produced. His
intellect was profound and discriminating. His imagination was discursive
and brilliant. It is but seldom that these two attributes of mind are so
happily blended in the same individual. Sometimes the reasoning faculty
claims exclusive sway, seeming to disdain and reject from its service the
lesser and more graceful aids of the fancy. Sometimes the imaginative
faculty reigns with dangerous supremacy, loosening itself from the safe and
sure ballast of the understanding. But in the deceased, the reasoning and
imaginative faculties were harmoniously and conspicuously united. Both were
created by God, and blended in the structure of man; and were intended to
form one consistent and harmonious whole. To these two attributes, the
deceased joined an enthusiasm of purpose, which seldom failed, or faltered,
until its object was obtained. This enthusiasm, forming as it were the steam
of the mind, and impelling onward the reasoning and imaginative faculties,
constituted Dr. Griffin, what in truth he was, one of the master spirits of
the age in which he lived.
As a preacher of the gospel, our beloved and venerated
friend possessed distinguished excellencies. His mind was amply furnished
with sacred knowledge, and he excelled both as a doctrinal and practical
preacher. His sermons were rich in thought, and designed to exhibit, explain
and enforce the great fundamental doctrines of the gospel. He aimed, in the
composition of his sermons, to enlighten the understanding, rouse the
conscience, and reach the heart. When he found his audience impervious to
such impressions, he would endeavor to interest their imagination, and move
their passions; and when he had gained their attention, and melted their
obduracy, he would "fix the seal of truth." In his argumentative, as well as
his ethical and hortatory discourses, there was a vivacity of impression
which never failed to interest. He was indeed unequal as a preacher.
Sometimes he would descend to the level of ordinary men; sometimes he would
indulge himself in declamation; but habitually he spoke with demonstration
of the Spirit, and with power. He often preached the terrors of the law, and
with a force of thought that made his hearers tremble. And often, too, he
did it with tenderness and tears. But his chosen theme was the love of God.
The cross of Christ was with him the glory of every sermon. In what melting
and persuasive accents have I heard him speak of the love of God. Never
shall I forget his tones, his accents, his manner, when with his erected
form, and a heart of irrepressible tenderness, he would pour forth streams
of love to God and man, as though he himself were at the fountain head.
His elocution and manner in the pulpit were somewhat
peculiar. He was never cold and indifferent—always impressive and solemn,
and very often highly impassioned. His prominent characteristics were
simplicity, tenderness and power. To one that did not know him, his manner
seemed sometimes to aim at effect. But if it ever was so, the few instances
were exceptions to his general character. It will be recollected that Dr.
Griffin lived in an age when the ministers of the gospel stood upon an
eminence, which they have never since occupied. Nor was he inferior to any
of them. If he excelled them, it was in the richness and variety, the
tenderness and power of his appeals to the conscience. Take him all in all,
he was the prince of preachers. There was a charm about his preaching, which
I have never known equaled. It will be long before his character as a
preacher, will be forgotten by the American churches. Wherever he preached,
crowds followed him. The learned and the ignorant, the exalted and the
debased, the humble believer and the bold infidel, seemed to hang upon his
lips with equal interest. Proud blasphemers,
"Came to hear him; hated; but came again,
And learned to love—for God was with the man."
I never heard a more fearless preacher, nor one more
melting and tender. He was greatly blessed of God as the means of converting
men. I doubt whether the minister can be named, since the days of Edwards
and Whitfield, to whom God has given more seals of his ministry. God had
eminently fitted him for usefulness in revivals, and preserved him from
evil. Though susceptible of strong excitement, he was remarkably free from
the indiscretions, to which ministers are too often liable at such seasons.
His mind and heart were so well balanced, that he had no tendency to
extremes. Nor do I know of any man who felt more deeply the wound given to
the cause of the Redeemer, by the unhallowed fire which has of late years
burned over so many portions of his fair heritage.
As a Christian, it was an object of the deceased to
cultivate the habit of cheerful piety, submissively and gratefully referring
every thing to the will of God. And therefore he habitually enjoyed
religion. He used to say, "Some men have just religion enough to make them
wretched; enough to spoil the world, but not enough to draw comfort from
God."
He had a forgiving spirit. I have known him a greatly
injured man; but I have never known him cherish a retaliating, or revengeful
disposition. I have seen him weep under injuries; but I never heard him
utter an angry sentence against those who reviled him. There was a kindness,
a generosity, a nobleness of heart about him, which his enemies never knew
how to appreciate. Of his spirituality, his preaching, and prayers, and
conversation, bore ample testimony. Who, that has heard him pray, does not
recollect with what sweetness and fervor he used to wrestle with God? When
he rose in prayer, it seemed as though he felt as a dying man, surrounded by
dying men, privileged to ask infinite blessings in the name of the atoning,
interceding Savior. He was greatly favored in spirituality of mind, during a
few of the closing years of his life. He seemed eminently to live above the
world, and to walk with God. The storms of life had driven him to this loved
refuge. During the protracted debility which terminated his earthly career,
he appeared to make rapid advances toward heaven. There was a tenderness, a
meekness, a submission, a gratitude, a love, which evinced that he was not
long to be an inhabitant of earth. And when from this protracted debility,
there began to be an obvious breaking down of his outward man, he possessed
a peace, a joy, which "like the spring tide, overflowed its banks."
He died in the full assurance of hope. His holy and
heavenly conversation; his solicitude for the honor of God, and the
salvation of men; his affectionate counsels and admonitions; and his
delightful testimony to the divine faithfulness, during the last few weeks,
will not be forgotten. I wish, he would say, for the honor of God, and for
your own comfort, for you have yet to die, to tell you of his merciful and
faithful provisions for a poor, wretched sinner, so needful for an old man
going down into the grave. Not an anxious thought is left for me, from day
to day, about the event, or manner of my death. That he should select this
time to do for me what he never did before- to remove every concern and fill
me with peace, and to make that most solemn event, and all the dreaded
means, no longer dreadful but delightful- is a proof of mercy and
faithfulness beyond the power of language to express. And you may expect
that he will do the same for you. One who stood near him replied, "If I were
as faithful as you have been."—This remark evidently gave him pain. Don’t
say that again! he rejoined, It is not because I am good, but because Christ
has died. He received every intimation of the probable approach of death
with exclamations, and often tears of gratitude. It was not that he was
impatient to be relieved from suffering. He often said, that the thought
that infinite wisdom and love ordered it all, made it delightful. For every
provision for his comfort, his heart overflowed with gratitude to his
Heavenly Father. He would say, Your love to your sick and dying child is
hatred, compared with the care of my Heavenly Father toward me.
On the last Lord’s day, new symptoms presented
themselves, and he was told his disease was approaching a crisis. The
announcement drew forth expressions of gratitude. A friend who came in on
Monday evening said, "Your journey is almost over." He replied, Blessed be
God! On Tuesday morning, at 4 o’clock, his family were called up to see him
die. One of them inquired, if he suffered any pain? To which he answered,
None: and in his own emphatic manner, though scarcely able to articulate, he
added, My Heavenly Father—my dear Redeemer’s mercy and faithfulness—I pray
you to give him glory forever! Being asked, if he dreaded the dying
struggle—No, said he, I leave it all with God. I refer it all to his will.
To one of his brethren in the ministry, who visited him in the course of the
day, he said, You see me just going home. His friend replied, "It has often
been your privilege to administer consolation to the dying; I trust you now
experience all those consolations you have offered to others."
More—more—much more, was his emphatic reply. On the afternoon of this day,
after bathing his feet, he said, I never expect to bathe my feet again. My
soul I hope to wash in the blood of the Lamb. To his own brother, who
inquired if his mind was yet unclouded, he replied, Without a doubt—without
a doubt! During the evening he remarked, The Savior never so manifested his
preciousness to me before. He repeated this thought, until his emotions
checked his utterance. The pangs of death he escaped. Early in the evening
he fell asleep, and continued to sleep quietly until 4 o’clock, on Wednesday
morning, when he ceased to breathe, and awoke in heaven.
His age was sixty seven years and ten months. He served
the Savior in the ministry of reconciliation forty five years. He was the
first death among a family of eight children.
Mercy and faithfulness were his constant theme. They are
the closing words of his diary; and who can doubt that they burst from his
enraptured tongue, as he entered the Heavenly City! He was exquisitely fond
of sacred music. Among the last earthly sounds that fell upon his ear were
the sweet hymns to which he loved daily to listen. How suddenly exchanged
for strains of celestial harmony and transporting praise to God and the
Lamb!
But I retire from this scene. Death, who strikes with
unsparing and indiscriminate hand, seems here to have watched with the
most searching scrutiny, where he might inflict a deep, and irremediable
wound. Neither commanding talent and energy, nor kindness of spirit, nor
form and features in which these so happily shine forth; nor piety, nor
usefulness could divert him from his stern purpose. He has stamped his cold
signet upon that brow. He has clothed with his pale colors that cheek. He
has bowed the mighty to the earth. He has crushed one of the noblest pillars
of the Temple in the dust.
And yet, may we not sing of mercy in the midst of
judgment? If our departed friend and father did not live until the late
evening of a summer’s day, his sun went down at his appointed hour, and set
without a cloud. If life be estimated by what life accomplishes, how few
live so long? Religion, my mourning friends, makes no provision for
insensibility under trials; but it does provide a solace under them. It is a
day when we know not how to spare such a man. But the Lord lives, and
blessed be our Rock, and let the God of our salvation be exalted! The Savior
will not leave you comfortless. You will not refuse to be comforted, when
you call to mind that one you loved so tenderly is gone to join the general
assembly and church of the first born. If you loved him, you will rejoice
because he said, I go to the Father.
How affecting is the voice of this providence to those of
us who minister in holy things! My respected and beloved fathers and
brethren in the ministry, shall we not cultivate a more heavenly mind? Do we
not greatly need larger measures of piety? From this hour, shall not our
light shine with a purer luster? I love to stand by the grave of a faithful
minister of the gospel. My murmuring heart receives here the rebuke it
needs. Are we not sometimes tempted to be weary of our work? And when we are
in the midst of its toil; when we feel its responsibilities; when storms
beat upon our unprotected head; when the ark of God trembles, and we fear to
touch it, lest with unhallowed hands; are we not, in some sad and sinning
hour, tempted to repent our purpose, and say, Why was I born for a minister?
But one such scene as this breaks the snare, and dispels the gloom. I look
at that sweet corpse, and love to think of death and the grave. Courage, my
brethren! Jesus is faithful. He will comfort us when we come to die. Be
faithful unto death, and he will give you a crown of life.
How affecting also is this admonition to the members of
these beloved churches, and to the inhabitants of this favored city. No
place was so endeared to our departed friend, by so many tender
recollections, as this. It is an event I have regarded with delighted
interest, that this beloved man was called to spend his last days among a
people where he had beheld such signal displays of the divine mercy; and
that in the latter, as well as in the early harvest, he should have had some
precious fruit of his labors. You have never treated him with unkindness.
You have shielded and loved him to the end. And you shall have your reward.
He little thought a few years ago, that this last office would be performed
by this beloved people. Mysterious are the ways of providence, and kind as
they are mysterious. This precious dust is embalmed by your own hands, and
you who have so often carried this man of God in your arms to the throne of
grace, now bear him to his last rest.
The thought lay heavy on his bosom in his dying hour,
that some of you listened to his voice in vain. You have heard his last
sermon. You have listened to his last prayer. He will never call you to
repentance again. And yet he can never be forgotten. His very name is a
memorial of the truths he uttered. O! eternity will show how fearful the
responsibility of having enjoyed the ministry of such a man.