Joseph Morgan Preacher 1709-1731 Dutch Reformed Church

In Gratitude for a Life of Service  Deuteronomy 26:1-11, 15   Colossians 1:11-20                                                   

         My how good it is to greet you in God’s Holy Name!  What a joy to return to this community, which I served faithfully in the ancient of days.  You have done well building up the body of Christ, far beyond the hand-hewn logs that fashioned the beams in the first church on this spot!   As I have wandered through your modern streets, I’ve seen signs bearing the names of those whom I knew well in years past: Wyckoff, Schanck, Conover, Longstreet, Tennant, and more.   These were first families to till this soil, to establish villages, farms, and churches, and it is good to know they have not been completely forgotten.

Sadly, some of those mentioned wished for me to be erased from memory – none in this room today, mind you.   I have had my share of detractors and enemies, those who persecuted me mercilessly during my tenure.  You know you’re doing God’s work when people are preparing crosses for you to bear.  Many spent years sharpening nails to pierce my hands and feet; and they succeeded in the end.  I ask you to trust that I served the Lord in my fashion, with devotion and prayer, and I had my share of joy along the way. 

         I lived down the road on the property where Old Brick Reformed Church now stands.   That was where the first parsonage was built, and where I farmed my plot of land, when I moved to the area in 1709.  From there I served the Dutch Reformed Church of Freehold and Middletown, two churches that I traveled between on Sabbath days.  This area was Middletown back then, and the Reformed Church of Middletown was on Red Hill Road, where the Old Church cemetery still marks the spot.   That church was constructed during my tenure in 1717.  What a joy it was to see the timbers rise and the steeple towering above the trees; and then to dedicate that glorious building, set among the fertile fields of this pleasant valley.  I also served the Dutch congregation in Freehold, driving my horse-cart like a jack-rabbit across the rutted, dirt paths, through tunnels of ancient trees between farms and pastures – rushing to get to worship on time.   (Mine was the first two-wheeled cart in the county, and farmers would stop, scratch their heads, and stare in wonder.) 

  I also served a small group of Presbyterians, who were the first to call me to pastor in this area from Connecticut.  We few Presbyterians gathered before God in homes and barns, until the church was built, which is now known as Old Tennant Church.  I was one of their first pastors, before the Tennant’s came after me: first John, then William, and then the third generation: Gilbert, the fervent evangelist and resounding voice for the New Light teachings of our great pastor, George Whitefield from England.   Ah, what adventures we shared, here in the fields of the Lord!   And ah, to speak in my native English, and not the difficult Dutch!

         From my very first Sunday, those dour Dutch farmers were revolted to have a Scottish Presbyterian as their ‘dominie,’ their pastor.  They treated me as if I were a foul creature from the moon.  True, they were desperate to have a preacher and a church, and they recognized that I had the training.  I had been ordained at Yale University in Connecticut after years of study of Greek, Hebrew, and Latin.  As luck would have it, I also spoke the Dutch language, having had relatives from the Netherlands.   So they took me on, though there was grumbling from the start.

         Some complained bitterly that I was not authorized by the Classis of Amsterdam, and so had no standing as a Reformed pastor.   I had them over the barrel, because they had no pastors available from the Netherlands.  It was blessed hard to get them trained and sent over from the Old Country.   There was no American classis, and so no local boys could get their studies done here.   Ha!  So they had to settle for me.   So be it.  They hated it, but they afforded me the opportunity to minister in this new and thriving community of both English and Dutch – and to give me, and my family a home and farm to enjoy. 

         At every turn, some faction of disaffected Dutch were after me.  One group complained that I preached from notes and not from the Spirit.  They were upset I was not illuminated with heavenly rays in the pulpit, or filled with holy gas.  I was a scholar for goodness sake – not a clown or a stage actor!   New Light preachers like Theodorus Freylinghuysen criticized me for this, saying I was not in touch with God’s spontaneous spirit!  To my mind the Spirit can be found in the study as well as in the pulpit, and stuttering and stammering to find the right words are best done in private, not in front of a congregation.  Later, of course, I myself would be slain in the Spirit after experiencing the preaching of Pastor Whitefield, was transformed into a traveling evangelist.  God has plans for us beyond what we can ever divine.  

         Finally, a gang of detractors brought charges against me, accusing me of a list of offenses, seeking to have me banished from the ministry.   First they called me a drunkard.  Yes, I enjoyed a wee dram of scotch whiskey on occasion.  In my day, farmers had dozens of stills on their property, and would turn their corn, potato or oat harvest into bottles of potent liquor.  It saved them the trouble of carting their produce hundreds of miles, when it was easier and more lucrative to carry bottles or jugs of homemade firewater.   It was also the custom that when guests came to call to bring out the best bottle of one kind or another. So my pastoral calls were often accompanied by a glass or three of hard corn whiskey or cider – and on more than one evening my horse was the one to find my way home.    So, yes, I had a wee bit of a problem, but so did most everyone in the county, to be honest.   Thankfully, I was acquitted of that charge since no witnesses were willing to come before the elders to testify. 

         “Promiscuous dancing” was another accusation thrown my way. “Promiscuous dancing?”  I’m Scottish for goodness sake.  Of course I enjoyed dancing on occasion.  On a summer’s eve I would attend a ho-down or reel, with fiddlers and clogging and square dancing.  What a joy to sing a hearty tune from the old country, to kick up heels in a jig, and to pass a jug behind the barn.   Life is not meant to be spent only in study and prayer; we are meant to live, as Jesus did at the wedding at Cana or when he had supper with his friends.   Yes, I danced, but not ‘promiscuously.’  I danced as I did as a lad in Glasgow with my family in the pub on a Saturday night.   How can you keep your feet from moving when the moon is full, fiddle is on fire, and lightning bugs are sparkling in the misty fields?

         Then they accused me of ‘astrology.’  Astrology!   These ignorant farmers!  I was a scientist.  I studied the stars; I didn’t worship them!  I had a telescope that I bought at college in Connecticut, and I used it late on winter’s nights to view the splendors of God’s mighty universe: the rings of Saturn, the craters of the moon, the red planet in its glory!   Astrology!  That is for the superstitious pagans.   I was an astronomer, a seeker after knowledge and understanding.   I kept a journal that I shared with fellow scientists when we convened in New York to share our discoveries. 

         You may not know, but I was also an inventor.  One of my designs was for a machine that would assist sailors and boatmen in navigation, to give mechanical power to oars to help ships becalmed without wind.   Here is my description, written in 1714 from Freehold to the Lords of Trade in Shrewsbury:  

"In this Work it being as easy to weald Oars for ye greatest Ship on ye Ocean, as for ye smallest Boat, and one man's strength equalizing so many, ye benefit must be exceeding great for ships ye lye becalmed or Wind Bound, &c.”  The fools never took me up on this innovation, and lost a chance to create something marvelous and lucrative.  Their loss. 

         For weeks I was dragged to hearings before church elders, harassed by angry neighbors, sent anonymous hate mail, and threatened with expulsion.  Finally, the elders ruled that these charges were false and I was exonerated.   Looking out at the sullen faces of my enemies on Sunday mornings was not pleasant in the months following.  But I was free to serve again as pastor and teacher.

         The years following were productive and pleasant in this young and fruitful land, serving three congregations, working my farm, raising my family, and enjoying the wonders of God’s gift of life.  Many a baby I baptized, many a marriage of young lovers, many a sermon preached, many a visit with sick and elderly and infirm, many a burial of loved ones old and young.   I have no regrets.  I have only fond memories of prosperity as this land blossomed and bore fruit.

         All of this was cut short when I was found out on a Sunday morning, drunk and abed and not in the pulpit, where I belonged.  I have no excuse and not much memory of what happened that Saturday night.  All I recall is one of the church elders barging into my bedroom with the rage of a prophet, lightning bolts darting from his eyes, yelling damnation.  By the next Sabbath day I was out of the church.   Yes, I admit I had a problem. Yes, demon drink had brought me low.  Yes, it was a habit I let strangle my judgment, consume my faith and inflate my pride.  I was left abandoned and bereft, and ordered to leave the parsonage and farm by year’s end.   After 22 years as minister and teacher, I was tossed away like a rotten hay bale.

         I fell into a deep well of despond.  Everyone I knew was against me, even God.  I had no clue where to turn; I felt lost and alone.   Finally, I began to turn back toward the light.  I read tracts put out by Jonathan Edwards and others about a new vision of faith that was sweeping our nation – calling us to move beyond the dark Calvinist visions of predestination, hell and damnation.  I stopped drinking completely.  I began a life of repentance, simple trust, and searching for God’s forgiveness.

I heard George Whitefield speak in 1740, at a revival gathering of 8,000 souls in a field outside of Philadelphia.  I was transformed.  He captivated and opened my heart and introduced me to the love of our Savior, who cleansed me of my sin, freed me from the fires of hell, and allowed me to be reborn through faith.  No righteousness of my own could save me; only the shining grace of God’s love.  I was a new creation.  After years as a preacher, I now saw that I had been deluded and lost, but I now had a message that could not be denied.

I left everything, and became an itinerant preacher, journeying from village to village, farm to farm along the Jersey Shore, preaching the good news of grace and salvation.  Just as God’s love freed and cleansed me, I taught others to open their hearts to eternal life, through accepting Christ and being born anew.   I now shared this message with all I met.  I have not turned back since, nor wavered in my efforts.  Now I am a soul with one destination, one horizon to race toward – that of God’s forgiveness, love, and grace. 

So here I am today, humbled by my many faults, honest in my desire to serve you and all those I meet, in awe of God’s unconditional acceptance of a sinner like me. Let me end by sharing a passage from one of George Whitefield’s sermons that speaks of Thanksgiving, and God’s blessings and mercy.  He says:

“Excuse my detaining you for long; perhaps it is the last time I shall speak to you: my heart is full, and out of the abundance of it, I could continue my discourse until midnight. But I must away to your new world.  May God give you new hearts, and enable you to put in practice what you have heard. For then God will so bless you, that “you will build you cities to dwell in; then will you sow your lands and plant vineyards, which will yield you fruits of increase,” Psalm 107:37. “Then your oxen shall be strong to labor, there shall be no leading into captivity, and no complaining in your streets; then shall your sons grow up as young plants, and your daughters be as polished corners of the temple: then shall your garners be full and plenteous with all manner of store, and your sheep bring forth thousands, and ten thousands in your streets,” Psalm 144 In short, then shall the Lord be your God; and as surely as God has now brought us to this haven, where we would be, so surely, after we have past through the storms and tempests of this troublesome world, will God bring us to the haven of eternal rest, where we shall have nothing to do, but to praise God for ever for God’s goodness, and declare, in never-ceasing songs of praise, the wonders the Lord has done for us.  Let us join with them in thanking and blessing that “high and lofty one, who inhabiteth eternity.”  Thanks be to God, Happy Thanksgiving!

Amen.