The Life of Maltbie Babcock

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 18^th, 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.