Maltbie Babcock found himself drawn to nature. During the
week he was often found strolling what we now call Eighteenmile Creek or
enjoying the region’s panoramic view of upstate New York and, in the distance,
Lake Ontario. Babcock would set out along the Niagara Escarpment and while away
the hours enjoying the surroundings and relishing in the created world.
All told, Maltbie needed the time away as well. He was a
vivacious young clergyman who seemed well-suited to any endeavor. Before he
entered the ministry in the Presbyterian Church he excelled at schooling,
graduating from Syracuse University with highest honors in 1879. He was an avid
athlete and competed at high levels in both swimming and baseball. After
graduating Syracuse, Babcock enrolled at Auburn Theological Seminary, where,
unsurprisingly, he excelled, receiving his degree in 1882.
Maltbie Babcock’s success and personal magnetism continued
into the pulpit, first in a church in Lockport, New York and later at Brown
Memorial Presbyterian Church in Baltimore, Maryland. He was known to have “an
unusually brilliant intellect and stirring oratorical powers that commanded
admiration.” He was known to have a luminously creative mind and often produced
colorful turns of phrase during his sermons. A contemporary once remarked, “Dr.
Babcock loved words. He was an imitable phrase maker. Some of his epigrams will
certainly live. They are so pungent and pointed. He loved to turn old phrases
and texts around, and show them in fresh and surprising contrasts.” His efforts
were not limited to the pulpit though, but overflowed with compassion as well,
as he led a fund-raising effort to assist Jewish refugees of anti-Jewish
pogroms in the 1880s. He was, in his time, a rising star.
He became so sought after in fact, that in 1900 when he felt
the call to ministry to Brick Presbyterian Church in New York City, the
residents of Baltimore petitioned to keep him there. An article written for The
New York Times even chronicled their efforts. In the end though, Babcock moved
back to New York, likely enticed as much by the work of the Kingdom as for the
land to which he was born.
In the spring of 1901 he took leave of the city and
accompanied some friends on a trip to the Holy Lands. No doubt he relished
walking in the footsteps of his Savior and marveled at the vivid landscapes.
Perhaps he left footprints on the shore of the Sea of Galilee and peered out
upon the waters where Peter, briefly, obeyed the call of the Lord to step out
in faith. He saw the world as if anew and likely found deep inspiration both in
this beautiful world and the proximity to Biblical events.
We have no record of his thoughts on the trip for, upon
leaving Palestine, he and several of his fellow travelers became ill with “Mediterranean
Fever” which is now known as brucellosis, a bacterial infection that induces
muscle pain, profuse and undulating fevers, and notably, depression. This
proved critical for, unbeknownst to most, the gregarious and enthusiastic young
man had previously battled with mental illness and in the 1880s had been
hospitalized for “nervous prostration” a contemporary euphemism for depression.
These struggles, coupled with the effects of this disease proved too much for
the bright shining clergyman. On May 18th, 1901, Maltbie Davenport
Babcock committed suicide by slitting his wrist and ingesting mercuric chloride
in Naples, Italy.
As his body was returned to the land that he so frequently
loved to enjoy, those who knew him could only take solace in words of comfort
he had once penned to a friend: “During these days of strain and suspense I
have wished I could be a little help to you. I can tell you that at least, and
pray that you may have, from God and your friends and your own heart, strength
enough to get through a day at a time. … You cannot understand, or explain, but
you know as well as I, that back of everything is God, and God is light,--- we
shall see. And God is love--- we shall be satisfied. It may be a long while,
but it will be worth waiting for. Trust Him all you can--- you will be glad you
did.”
The man who once walked the fields and trails to draw near
to his Creator was laid to rest at Oakwood Cemetery in Syracuse, New York. His
body was buried beside the trees under whose shade he had once leisurely
rested.
His widow Katherine, likely peered longingly out the windows
of their home as if awaiting Maltbie’s return from one of his afternoon strolls.
He would return no more. She would later publish some of his writings, poetry
and sermons. But these surely brought little solace to the grieving woman. Her
heart still yearned for her husband to walk back in the door, stomp the mud
from his boots, and embrace her warmly. He often would tell her upon setting
out that he was “going out to see the Father’s world.” Now he would see it no
more in the flesh. Among the works Katherine published under the title, Thoughts
for Every-Day Living, was a poem entitled, “My Father’s World.” The
original poem had sixteen stanzas drawn from Psalms 33 and 50 but when close
friend Franklin Sheppard arranged it as a hymn in 1915, he selected only three.
Sheppard, who signed the work as “S.F.L” so as to not call attention to
himself, changed the name, of course, to what we know it as today: “This Is My
Father’s World”.
This hymn breathes from the heart of so many of us still today when the troubles and
strains of the world weigh heavy on our hearts and we long for the beauty of the
created world to ease our burden. Perhaps now we can see in our minds, the land
as Babcock did: the verdant forests of northern New York, stretching off to the
horizon with the sun reflecting off the sliver-blue of Lake Ontario glittering
in the autumn day.
This Is My Father’s
World
This is my Father’s
world,
And to my listening
ears
All nature sings, and
round me rings
The music of the
spheres.
This is my Father’s
world:
I rest me in the
thought
Of rocks and trees, of
skies and seas;
His hand the wonders
wrought.
This is my Father’s
world,
The birds their carols
raise,
The morning light, the
lily white,
Declare their maker’s
praise.
This is my Father’s
world,
He shines in all
that’s fair;
In the rustling grass
I hear him pass;
He speaks to me
everywhere.
This is my Father’s
world
O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong
seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s
world.
The battle is not
done.
Jesus who died shall
be satisfied,
And earth and heav’n
be one.
