Venturing upon rude waves

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[ABOVE: Hans Egede, Map of the Vicinity of Hope Island (Håbets Ø), Greenland, January 1, 1722—Royal Danish Library / public domain, Wikimedia Commons]

For nearly two millennia, the expansion of Christianity was measured in knots rather than frequent-flyer miles. This was no less true during the age of European exploration—to go out, Western missionaries had to cast themselves on the waves. Some were explorers first, who went out as missionaries, and some were missionaries foremost, piggybacking on explorers.

Regardless of the reason, as Increase Mather (1639–1723), the leading Puritan light of New England’s second generation, reported, 

It was a great and high undertaking of our fathers when they ventured themselves and their little ones upon the rude waves of the vast ocean that so they might follow the Lord into his land. 

They dared cross the ocean not to be free of religion, but to be free for God. 

SEABORNE FAITH

For the Puritans who came to New England, the ocean was a testament to the depths of their commitment to found (as historian Perry Miller called it) a “Bible commonwealth” on the western shore of the Atlantic. On April 8, 1630, the Arbella, flagship of the 11-ship Winthrop fleet, set sail from Southampton for the fledgling Massachusetts Bay Colony. It carried poet Anne Bradstreet (1612–1672); Lady Arbella Johnson (1597–1630), for whom the ship was renamed from Eagle; and their governor, John Winthrop (1588–1649). Either dockside before launching or during the otherwise uneventful voyage, Winthrop took the opportunity to deliver one of the most foundational orations in all American history: “A Model of Christian Charity.”

Winthrop told his fellow Puritans that they were venturing forth to plant “a City upon a Hill,” drawing on Matthew 5:14. He called them to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” These Puritans were not mere refugees fleeing persecution; they were missionaries intent on setting up a light to the nations, to establish a base for the conversion of the world. Winthrop told them, “The eyes of all people are upon us,” as they crossed the pond. 

The language he used—“as we are now”—referred to their seaborne context. “We are entered into covenant with [God] for this work. . . . Now if the Lord shall please to hear us, and bring us in peace to the place we desire. . . .” Their arrival depended on God’s will. They had no assurance they would make it across the Atlantic. Winthrop warned that if they should fail to keep their covenant with God and “embrace this present world and prosecute our carnal intentions,” the result would be a “shipwreck” of the colony. 

With the typical journey from England to America lasting about two months, such shipwrecks and failures remained ever-present realities. Even so the first “Pilgrims” (Puritans who came on the Mayflower) made passage in hopeful faith. Their ship, and those that followed, became makeshift towns where life and worship went on—albeit changed by the sea. 

For example a child born on the Mayflower in 1620 was fittingly named “Oceanus” (Latin for ocean). Thirteen years later, John Cotton’s (1585–1652) wife, Sarah, would give birth to a son on board the Griffin and name him “Seaborn.”

Upon arrival at Cape Cod on November 11, 1620, the Pilgrims used the Mayflower as their floating home for 33 days before transferring permanently to America. Meanwhile they drafted and signed the Mayflower Compact. John Quincy Adams, in an 1802 oration at Plymouth, described the compact as the “precursor of that which now extends over this whole Union.” Like the Cottons’ son, it was sea-born.

With the Arbella and Winthrop’s landmark “Model of Christian Charity” sermon began the “great migration” of the 1630s. Over the next decade, some 20,000 English people, mostly Puritans, crossed the Atlantic to plant “a City upon a Hill.” The “grandfather of modern missions,” John Eliot (1604–1690), explained that his reason for coming to New England was “to enjoy the holy worship of God, not according to the fantasies of men but according to the Word of God, without . . . human additions and novelties.” 

But with great reward came great risk. Each voyage carried the relatively high possibility of being lost at sea. Seventeenth-century ships were small, incomparably smaller than ships used today. For instance a modern giant cruise ship like the Icon of the Seas—over 1,000 feet long and 200 feet wide—dwarfs the 100-foot-long, 25-foot-wide Mayflower, much the same way a floating hotel would dwarf a compact car. Furthermore less-sophisticated technology made navigation more difficult and dangerous.

Frequently such shipwrecks meant that no one ever heard from the passengers or crew again, a fate that fell upon Cotton Mather’s son, Increase “Creasy” Mather (lost at sea in 1724, not to be confused with Cotton Mather’s father of the same name). Ships also hosted diseases, which passed quickly in the cramped quarters. Whether by sickness or shipwreck, death loomed close at hand.

COLONIES AND CROSSES

Besides those sailing to New England, Protestant missionaries piggybacked onto colonial expansion to take the cross wherever their flag was sailing. Heinrich Plütschau (1677–1752) and Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg (1683–1719), German Pietists, were the first Protestant missionaries to disembark in India in 1706, nearly a century before William Carey (1761–1834). They sailed on the Danish ship Sophia, enduring a brutal voyage, especially because the captain, out of spite, threatened to throw them overboard. They spent the seven-month journey studying Portuguese and the Bible. When they landed in the Danish trading post of Tranquebar, the colonial governor refused to let them enter for days, confining them to the beach in the scorching sun.

Hans Egede (1686–1758), a Norwegian Lutheran pastor, ventured on the Haabet (Hope) to Greenland in 1721 with his wife and four children. He was hoping to find lost Norse (Viking) colonies that had not been heard from in 300 years, fearing they had reverted to paganism. He found no Vikings, only Inuits. He stayed to minister to them, learning their language, and translating the Gospels (famously contextualizing “Lamb of God” to “Seal of God” so the Inuit could understand the concept of a sacrificed innocent animal). He earned the title “Apostle of Greenland.”

The Moravian Brethren were arguably the first Protestants to send missionaries overseas on a large scale (see CH #1). In 1732 Johann Leonhard Dober (1706–1766) and David Nitschmann (1676–1758) sailed to St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, willing to sell themselves into slavery to minister to enslaved Africans. The next year Christian David (1692–1751) sailed on the ship Caritas to Greenland, then after three years migrated to Pennsylvania, where he helped found Bethlehem. 

MADMEN MISSIONARIES

In 1735 a team of Moravians, led by August Spangenberg (1704–1792) and David Nitschmann, “the Bishop” (1696–1772), sailed on the Simmonds from England to the new colony of Georgia. Amid a tumultuous storm that shredded the ship’s mainsail, the English passengers screamed in terror while the Moravians sang psalms. Their composure impressed a pair of brothers and Anglican ministers on board: John (1703–1791) and Charles Wesley (1707–1788).

The Wesley brothers boarded the Simmonds to bring their brand of ascetic Anglicanism to Georgia, founded only three years earlier in 1732. John kept his strict religious methods on board, rising at 4:00 a.m. for prayer. However, when the terrifying storm struck, John saw that he lacked the faith and peace of the Moravians. Wesley went to America to convert others, but it was a mid-Atlantic storm that revealed his own faith crisis (see CH #69). Failing as a missionary, he returned to London, wondering, “I went to America to convert the Indians; but oh, who shall convert me?” The Moravians’ example in the tempest was the catalyst for his Aldersgate renewal experience and everything else that flowed from it, including Methodism and Wesley’s impact on the Great Awakening.

A friend of the Wesley brothers and a chief igniter of the Great Awakening was also a frequent sea traveler. George Whitefield (1714–1770) spent a cumulative two years aboard ships, crossing the Atlantic 13 times. Far from treating these long voyages as idle downtime, Whitefield transformed the decks of vessels such as the Whitaker into floating parishes (see CH #38). Like Wesley he adhered to a disciplined schedule that began as early as 4:00 a.m. for private prayer and Scripture reading on his knees. He wrote, during a 1739 voyage, “I spent most of the day in reading, and was much assisted in the study of the Greek Testament. I find it a great advantage to be at sea; for here I have no interruptions, but can wait upon God without distraction.” 

He evangelized his fellow passengers, preached extemporaneous sermons, and conducted services on the open deck—once called a “madman” by a ship’s captain for doing so. On a 1740 trip, he wrote, “The smell of the ship is very offensive . . . and the motion so great that I can scarce stand. But what are these small things to the joy of seeing souls brought to Christ?” 

When not preaching or catechizing children, he was writing his prolific journals and letters. Upon disembarking he would send them to the printer to publicize his revivals, effectively turning the tedious months of isolation at sea into a publicity engine for his ministry.

William Carey, crowned the “father of modern missions,” left for India in 1793, enkindled by John Eliot’s example. However, the British East India Company, hostile to missionaries, refused to take him. Carey was kicked off an English ship before finding a Danish captain willing to take him illegally (see CH #36). The voyage around the perilous Cape of Good Hope took five months, during which Carey began studying Bengali.

By 1796 the London Missionary Society saw the value of owning its own ship, rather than depending on the whims of trading companies. It purchased the Duff. Captain James Wilson (1760–1814), himself a former prisoner of war who converted to Christianity, piloted the ship carrying 30 missionaries to Tahiti, Tonga, and the Marquesas. They brought not only ordained clergy but also artisans like carpenters and blacksmiths to the indigenous people. It was one of the longest missionary voyages of the time, navigating virtually uncharted waters. Some of the missionaries were martyred; others fled. But they opened new mission fields in the Pacific to Christianity (see pp. 44–46).

Perhaps winning the prize for most nautical miles sailed, Thomas Coke (1747–1814), a Methodist missionary, crossed the Atlantic 18 times, going to and from England, America, and the Caribbean. Finally, at age 66, Coke set sail for Ceylon (Sri Lanka) on board the East India ship Cabalva. En route he died of a “fit of apoplexy” (likely a stroke). Buried at sea in the Indian Ocean, he became a symbol of missionary sacrifice.

John Newton (1725–1807) was a sailor on the Greyhound in 1748 when it was caught in a violent storm near Ireland that nearly wrecked the ship. In fear for his life, he cried out, “Lord, have mercy upon us,” which became a step to his eventual spiritual awakening that finally turned him against the slave trade. It was the seed that later bore fruit in the hymn “Amazing Grace.” The line “precious did that grace appear” refers specifically to the moment of the Greyhound’s near wreck.

Finally, two of America’s first official missionaries, Adoniram Judson (1788–1850) and his wife, Ann (1789–1826), left for India on the Caravan in 1812. Their voyage is famous for moving them both geographically and theologically. They left America as Congregationalists but arrived in India as Baptists (see CH #90). During the four-month voyage, Adoniram studied his Greek New Testament to prepare to refute the Baptists he would meet in India. Instead Adoniram became convinced of believer’s baptism. When they landed in Calcutta, they resigned from the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, which he had helped found, and joined the Baptists, eventually becoming the first American missionaries to Burma (Myanmar). 

MODERN MARITIME MESSENGERS

Though ship-based ministry looks different from that of preceding centuries, it continues to this day. Mercy Ships, for example, operate the world’s largest nongovernmental hospital ships, providing free medical care to some of the poorest nations, especially in sub-Saharan Africa. Similarly, Operation Mobilisation (OM) operates the Logos fleet, including Logos, Logos II, Logos Hope, and Doulos, offering at their ports of call Christian literature, education, cross-cultural exchange, and evangelism. Today the ship is no longer just the vehicle; it is the venue.

From the “rude waves” of the “great migration” to today’s maritime messengers, the ocean has not just been a delay or obstacle. It has been a floating sanctuary and a crucible of faith. CH 

By John B. Carpenter

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