Logbook of A Sailor Turned Preacher

*****BONUS EPISODE-2 FOR TUESDAY AM SESSION*****

A lesson from my personal life and one of evangelism!!!!

Transcript

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Welcome to Tales of Faith by the Sea. And welcome to our Two for Tuesday edition as well. This morning will be the first installment. The logbook of a sailor turned preacher. Deep water edition. If you will, take a seat with me right beside me here on the porch. Come closer, dear friend, for this is no 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 callused, back bent to labor, eyes strained to the horizon and sky. And if you had 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 preacher, and I tell you plainly, the greatest storms I faced were not of wind and wave, but of silence and shame. And so we begin with the words of Paul written to the believers in Rome. For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God unto salvation to everyone that believeth. Now I know I have mentioned this verse in the past couple episodes. And I promise this is going to be the conclusion. We shall not pass over them lightly, though. We shall dwell in them, as a sailor dwells in his vessel, learning 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 already. So it was with me. I came to the sea with a boy's confidence, and a man's borrowed convictions. I 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 leaves it. Yet even before we cast off, there was another testing, quieter and more subtle, the testing of identity. Among the sailors there was an unspoken code. Strength was prized, weakness scorned, and anything that set 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, 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 began a habit, not of denying truth, but of delaying it. And delay, when it comes to truth, is often a 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, and the third it was hardly noticed. Soon, silence feels natural, and with it comes a subtle change, not in belief, but in boldness. Convictions once firm grew quiet, certainties once clear, grew dim in expression. I recall conversations where truth was bent, slightly at first, then more boldly. And I knew better, but said nothing. Why? Because I had come to value acceptance. To be counted among the crew was a 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 it 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 fins. 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 edged deep in my 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've 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 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, but briefly, and if we are unprepared or unwilling, they pass. Then came the storm, not a lesson, but as reality. The sea rose with 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 spoken his name with reverence, now called it aloud, and I, who had hidden my faith in calm, could not keep it hidden then. 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 silence and calm will cry out in crisis, but it would 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 on strength of those who carry it. It is not weakened by rejection. It is not diminished by silence, though we are diminished by withholding it. It is 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 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 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 say with the apostle Paul, I am not ashamed of the gospel, let it be your voice, your anchor, your course. Now stay with me, dear listener, do not yet leave the deck, for some might hear this and say, Ah, that is well enough for old sailors of old, for wooden ships and storm tall seas, but what of us who walk upon pavement and not planks? And I tell you plainly, the sea is not vanished. It has only changed its form. There are harbors yet, though they may not be filled with mast. 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, 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 rise like waves, constant, crashing, overlapping, opinions flash like lightning, bright and loud and soon gone. And in such 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 be swept into the storm. Yet I tell you, silence does not calm the sea. It only removes your light from it. Do not mistake it. The strongest winds have not changed. It is not culture, it is not opposition, it is not even misunderstanding. It's 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 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 a little 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, would I learn too late on many nights? Moments like these are not accidents. They are entrusted. Now hear the greatest comfort and also the greatest challenge. The world has changed, but the gospel has not. It is still, as Paul the Apostle 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 that it 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 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. Well, friends, our time together has drawn to a close. The tide is turning, the morning is still quiet. The galls have settled upon their post. The harbor lights have gone out. Thank you for spending this time with me by the sea. It is my prayer that something from God's word has strengthened your faith, encouraged your heart, and reminded you that the Lord is still guiding his people safely through every storm and every crossing. If the Lord wills, we will gather again later this afternoon, and every Tuesday evening. Each week we will meet along these shores. Each week we will meet along these shores and listen to stories carried by the sea winds, stories from the Gulf Coast, from working fishermen and sailors, from storms and shipwrecks, from lighthouses and harbors, from the deep waters of the ocean, and from countless lessons God teaches through his creation. Most importantly, we will open the holy scriptures together and seek wisdom from the eternal word of God. My hope is that these conversations will be a source of encouragement in the middle of your week. For faithful Christians striving to serve the Lord, perhaps these episodes can serve as a brief harbor of rest between the Lord's Day's assembly, a place to strengthen the anchor. Refill the lamp and be reminded of God's promises. For those who may not yet know Christ, or who may be unfamiliar with the Lord's Church, my prayer is this that these studies will encourage you to open God's word for yourself and discover the beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ. And if you are not presently a member of the Lord's Church, I would encourage you to seek out a faithful congregation of the Church of Christ in your area, one that strives to follow the teachings of the New Testament, honor the authority of Scripture, and glorify Christ in all things. The Christian life was never meant to be sailed alone. God designed his people to worship, serve, grow, and encourage one another together. As Hebrews reminds us, we are not to forsake the assembling of ourselves together, but to encourage one another as we see the day approaching. Before we leave this morning, allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Nathan Hampton, and I have the privilege of serving as the preacher for the Enan Church of Christ, just outside Dothan, Alabama. It is a blessing to spend these moments with you each week, and I am grateful for every listener who chooses to join me on these voyages through Scripture. So until next time, keep your Bible open. Keep your faith anchored in the promises of God, and remember that the captain of our salvation still stands at the helm. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He strengthen your faith when the seas are rough. May He comfort you when the nights seem long. May He grant you courage for every crossing, and peace for every storm. And may we all continue sailing towards that eternal harbor, where storms never rise, tears never fall, and the light of our Savior never grows dim. Until next time, friends, fair winds, steadfast faith, and God's richest blessings to you.