THE HOUSE-TOP SAINT

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Mar 11, 1880

THE HOUSE-TOP SAINT.

"YES, yes, sonny, I'm mighty fo'-handed, and noways like poo' white trash, nor yet like any of dese onsanctified col'd folks dat grab dier liberty like a dog grabs a bone—no thanks to nobody!"

Thus the sable, queenly Sibyl McIvor ended a long boast of her prosperity since she had become her own mistress, to a young teacher from the north, as she was arranging his snowy linen in his trunk.

"I'm truly glad to hear of all this comfort and plenty, Sibyl; but I hope your treasures are not all laid up on earth. I hope you are a Christian?" asked the young stranger.

Sibyl put up her great hands, and straightened and elevated the horns of her gay turban; and then, planting them on her capacious hips, she looked the beardless youth in the eye and exclaimed with a sarcastic smile, "You hope I'm a Christian, do you? Why, sonny, I was a 'spectable sort of a Christian afore your mammy was born, I reckons! But for dese last twenty-five years, I's done been a mighty powerful one—one o' the kind dat makes Satan shake in his hoofs—I is one of de house-top saints, sonny!"

"House-top saints? What kind of saints are those?" asked the young northerner.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sibyl; "I thought like's not you never even heerd tell on 'em up your way. Dey's mighty scarce any whar; but de Lor's got one on 'em, to any rate, in dis place, and on dis plantation!" replied Sibyl, triumphantly.

"And that is you?"

"Yes, sonny, dat is me!"

"Then tell me what you mean by being a house-top saint?"

"Well I means dat I's been t'rough all de stories o' my Father's house on airth, from de cellar up; and now I's fairly on de ruff—yes, on de very ridge pole; and dere I sits and sings and sees heaven—like you never see it t'rough de clouds down yere."

"How did you get there, auntie?"

"How does you get from de cellar to de parlor, and from de parlor to de chamber, and from de chamber to de ruff?" Why, de builder has put sta'rs thar, and you sees 'em and puts your feet on 'em and mounts, ha?"

"But there are the same stairs in our Father's house for all his children, as for you; and yet you say house-top saints are very scarce!"

"Sartin, sonny. Sta'rs don't get people up, 'less dey mounts 'em. If dere was a million o' sta'rs lead'n up to glory, it wouldn't help dem dat sits down at de bottom and howls and mourns 'bout how helpless dey is! Brudder Adam, dere, dat's a blackin' of your boots, he's de husban' o' my bussum, and yet he's nothin' but only a poor, down-cellar 'sciple, sittin' in de dark, and whinin', and lamentin' 'cause he ain't up sta'rs! I says to him, says I, 'brudder'—I's allus called him brudder since he was born into de kingdom—why don't you come up into de light?"

"Oh,' says he, 'Sibby, I's too unworthy! I doesn't desarve de light dat God has made for de holy ones.'"

" 'Phoo,' said I, 'Brudder Adam! don't you 'member,' says I, 'when our massa done married de gov'ness, arter old missus' death! Miss Alice, she was as poor as an unfeathered chicken; but did she go down cellar and sit 'mong de po'k barr'ls and de trash, 'cause she was poor and wasn't worthy to live up sta'rs? Not she! She tuk her place to de head o' de table, and w'ar all de lacery and jewelry massa gib her, and hold up her head high, like she was sayin', I's no more poor gov'ness, teaching Col'n McIvor's chil'n, as she had a right to say! And de Col'n love her all de more for her not bein' a fool and settin' down cellar 'mong de po'k barr'ls!'"

"Dere, sonny, dat's de way I talk to Brudder Adam! But so far it hain't fotched him up. De poor deluded cretur' thinks he's humble, when he's only low-minded and grovellin' like. It's unworthy of a blood-bought soul for to stick to de cold, dark cellar, when he might live in de light and warmf, up on de house-top."

"That's very true, Sibyl; but few of us reach the house-top," said the young man thoughtfully.

"Mo' fools you, den!" cried Sibyl. "De house-top is dere, and de sta'rs are dere, and de grand, glorious Master is dere, up 'bove all, callin' to you day and night, 'Frien', come up higher.' He reaches down his shinin' han' and offers for to draw you up; but you shakes your head and pulls back and says, 'No, no, Lord; I isn't nothin'.' Is dat de way to treat him who has bought light and life for you? Oh, shame on you, sonny, and on all de down-cellar and parlor and chamber Christians!"

"What are parlor Christians, auntie?" asked the young man.

"Parlor Christians, honey? Why, dem is de ones dat gets barley out o' de cellar and goes straightway and forgets what kind o' creturs dey was down dere. Dey grow proud and dresses up fine, like de worl's folks, and dances, and sings worldly trash o' songs, and has only just 'ligion enough to make a show wid.' Ole our missus, she used to train 'mong her col'd folks wuss den ole King Furio 'mong de 'Gyptians. But, bless you, de minute de parson or any other good brudder or sister come along, how she did tune up her harp. She was mighty 'ligious in de parlor, but she left her 'ligion dere when she went out."

"I do think missus got to heaven, wid all her infirmities. But she didn't get very high up till de bridegroom come and called for her. Den she said to me, one dead-o-night, 'Oh, Sibby,' she—she held tight on to my han';—'Oh, Sibby, if you could only go along o' me, and I could keep hold o' your garments, I'd have hope o' getting through de shinin' gate; your clothes and your face and your hands shines like silver, Sibby,' she says she. 'Dear soul,' says I, 'dis light you see isn't mine! It all comes 'flected on to poor black Sibyl from de cross; and dere is heaps more of it to shine on you and every other poor sinner dat will come near enough to kotch de rays.'"

" 'Oh,' says she, 'Sibby, when I heard you shoutin' Glory to God, and talkin' of him on de house-top, I thought it was all su'stition and ig-no'ance. But now, oh, Sibby, I'd like to touch de hem o' your garment, and wipe de dust off your shoes, if I could only ketch a glimpse o' Christ.'"

" 'Do you b'lieve dat you's a sinner, missus?' says I."

" 'Yes, de chief of sinners,' says she, with a groan."

" 'Do you b'lieve dat Christ died for sinners, and is able to carry out his plan?' says I."

" 'Yes,' said she."

" 'Well, then,' says I, 'if you's sinner 'nough, and Christ is Saviour 'nough, what's to hender your bein' saved? Just you quit lookin' at yourself, and look to him.'"

"Den she ketch sight o' de cross, and forgot herself; and her face light up like an angel's; and she was a new missus from dat yar hour. She died a singin',"

" 'In my han' no price I bring, Simply to dy cross I cling.'"

But she mought a sung all de way along if she hadn't forgot the hoomiliation o' de cellar, and 'bused the privileges ob de parlor. Parlors is fine things; but dey ain't made for folks to spen' deir whole time in.

"What's a chamber saint, auntie?" asked the young man.

"Chamber saints is dem dat's 'scaped de dark and de scare of de cellar, and de honey-traps o' de parlor, and got through many worries, and so feels a-tired, and is glad o' rest. Dey says, 'Well, we's got 'long mighty well, and can now see de way clar up to glory.' And sometimes dey forgets dat dey's on'y half way up, and thinks dey's come off conqueror a'ready. So dey's very apt to lie down wid deir hands folded, thinkin' dat Satan isn't nowhar, now! But he is close by 'em, and he smooves deir soft pillow, and sings 'em to sleep and to slumber, and de work ob de kingdom don't get no help from dem—not for one while! De chamber is a sort o' half-way house made for rest and comfort; but some turns it into a roostin' place! You know Brudder Bunyan, sonny?"

"No."

"What, never heerd tell o' John Bunyan?"

"Oh, yes."

"I thought you couldn't all be so ignorant 'bout 'ligion up in Boston as dat! Well, you know he wrote 'bout a brudder dat got asleep and loss his roll, and dat's what's de matter wid heaps o' Christians in de worl'. Dey falls asleep and loses deir hope."

"And do you keep in this joyful and wakeful frame all the time, auntie?" asked the young learner.

"I does, honey. By de help of de Lord, and a contin'al watch, I keep de head ob de ole sarpint mashed under my heel, pretty ginerall. Why, sometimes, when he raises up and thrusts his fangs out, I has such power gin me to stomp on him dat I can hear his bones crack—mostly! I tell you, honey, he don't like me, and he's most gin me up for los'."

"Now, Sibyl, you are speaking in figures. Tell me plainly how you get the victory over Satan."

"Heaps o' ways," she replied. "Sometimes I gets up de mornin', and I sees work enough for two women ahead o' me. Maybe my head done ache, and my narves is done rampant; and I hears a voice sayin' in my ear, 'Come or go what likes, Sibby, dat ar work is got to be done! You's sick and tired a'ready! Your lot's a mighty hard one, sister Sibby'—Satan often has de imperdence to call me 'sister'—'and if Adam was only a pearter man, and if Tom wasn't lame, and if Judy and Cle'patry wasn't dead, you could live mighty easy. But just you look at dat ar pile o' shirts to iron, 'sides cookin' for Adam and Tom, and keepin' your house like a Christian oughter.' Dat's how he 'sails me when I's weak. Den I faces straight about and looks at him, and says, in de words o' Scripter, 'Clar out and git ahind my back, Satan.' Dat ar pile o' shirts ain't high enough to hide Him dat is my strength. And sometimes I whisks de shirts up and rolls 'em into a bundle, and heaves 'em back into de clothes bask't, and says to 'em, 'You lay dar till to-morrow, will you? I ain't no slave to work, nor to Satan, for I can 'ford to wait, and sing a hime to cher my speerits, if I like.' And den Satan drops his tail and slinks off, most ginerall; and I goes 'bout my work a singin':"

" 'My Master bruise de sarpint's head, And bind him wid a chain; Come, brudders, hololujah shout, Wid all yer might and main! Hololujah!'"

"Does Satan always assail you through your work?" asked the young stranger.

"No, bless you, honey; sometimes he 'tacks me through my stummick; and dat's de way he 'tacks rich and grand folks most ginerall. If I eat too hearty o' fat bacon and corn cake in times gone, I used to get low in 'ligion, and my hope failed, and I den was such a fool I thought Christ had forgot to be gracious to me. Satan makes great weapons out o' bacon. But I knows better now, and I keep my body under, like Brudder Paul, and nothin' has power to separate me from Him I loves. I's had sorrows enough to break a dozen hearts dat had no Jesus to shar' 'em wid, but every one on 'em has fotched me nearer to him. Some folks would like to shirk all trouble on dair way to glory, and swim into de shinin' harbor through a sea o' honey. But, sonny, dere's crosses to bar, and I ain't mean enough to want my blessed Jesus to bar 'em all alone. It's my glory here dat I can take hold o' one end o' de cross and help him up de hill wid de load o' poor and wounded and sick sinners he's got on his hands and heart to get up to glory. But la! honey! how de time has flew; I must go home and get Brudder Adam's dinner; for its one o' my articles o' faith never to keep him waitin' beyond twelve o'clock when he's hungry and tired, for dat allus gives Satan fresh 'vantage over him. Come to my palace some day, and we'll have more talk about the way to glory."