HOW GOD USED FARMER FARISS
From The Life of Robert Paine
Edited By Duane V. Maxey
Edited By Duane V. Maxey
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Uneducated, Primitive Methodist preacher, John Benton, was once belittled for not knowing grammar. However, in a later service wherein his critic was present, the Mighty Power of the Holy Ghost so fell upon the crowd that some groaned, others shrieked; and some fell from their seats! Whereupon, Benton closed his Bible and, when going to pray for the mourners, he said to his critic, "This is grammar!"
In the following excerpt Robert Paine tells how God likewise mightily used Methodist Farmer, James W. Fariss, even though his preaching was not always exegetically correct.--DVM
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James W. Fariss was a notable character, with whom I formed an acquaintance this year. He belonged to a large family of sturdy citizens, most of whom were Methodists, residing near Winchester, Tenn. He was then about thirty years old, was a farmer, had been lately licensed as a local preacher, and had a wife with several children. His physique was striking—six feet high, broad-chested, an athlete in form and prowess, with a long aquiline nose, Grecian profile, and large gray, dreamy eyes.
He was retiring and reticent, and seemed to be meditative and sad. Nature had made him of her finest mold, and stamped him with the signet for a poet and an orator. He could not help being an orator, he was born such. Before he fairly grew to manhood, and before his conversion, he was devoted to fun and frolic, to the violin and dancing. He was the leader on all such occasions. But a change came over the spirit of his dreams, insomuch that when he awoke from the delirium of carnal amusements, he at once resolved to rid himself of all the allurements of his surroundings.
With the simple statement to his wife that he was, as he feared, a lost man, he took a Bible and left home. In a recess or cave of the mountain it is said he hid himself, and there in solitude, like Jacob, he wrestled with God. There he thought, read his Bible, wept over his sins, and again and again poured out his soul in importunate prayer, having resolved not to desist or return until the great question was settled. How long he stayed I know not; I think several days.
His family and friends became alarmed, and searched for him in vain. A report got out that he had become insane. His old companions could not understand it otherwise. No doubt the retirement of Jacob on the memorable night of his conversion seemed unnatural and unaccountable to his family and attendants; but he knew what he was doing, and it was the crisis in his history, and the wisest act of his eventful life. Like Jacob, he struggled with 'the angel' until he triumphed, and could say, 'I know thee, Saviour, whom thou art;' and then went down the mountain to spend the remainder of his life in telling to others the wonders of redeeming love.
His conversion produced a profound sensation throughout the country, and his deportment, at once so humble, zealous, and consistent, gave great force to his efforts to do good. Soon after this great change he joined the Church, and in due time was licensed to preach. Arranging his temporal interests, he entered the traveling connection, and after many years of toil and sacrifice, died in the Western District of Tennessee, lamented and loved by thousands.
I have said he was a natural orator, with a meditative and rather melancholy cast of mind, and a deeply devoted Christian. There were days when he seemed absorbed and disinclined to mix in society. He would perform his duties and retire, or remain silent. He prayed much in secret. but he was not rude or unapproachable; and in his family always gentle and forbearing. To guile, envy, and malevolence he was a stranger. He loved God and all men.
In his preaching he was irregular, sometimes commonplace, generally entertaining and attractive, and occasionally almost resistless. He had all the qualities and endowments of a great orator, except those resulting from mental culture. His fancy was fine; his imagination of the highest order; his illustrations were strikingly natural and apt; his voice, like his touches on his favorite violin, of which he was once confessedly a thorough master, was of great compass, gliding now sweetly and softly, like the perfection of musical tones.
As he warmed in his theme, gradually swelling; if it involved the great issues of 'Eternal Judgment,' his soul glowed, his features assumed an expression of awe and earnestness, his form rose, and his voice broke upon his audience like the thunders of Sinai over the trembling, awe-stricken hosts of Israel. Then he was terrible!
An instance of this, which will never be forgotten by anyone of the thousands present, was his sermon at Mountain Spring Camp-ground, North Alabama, in 1829. His text was 'the barren fig-tree.' The crowd was immense, made up mainly of a wealthy, intelligent, and fashionable people. They were hospitable and well-behaved, but the best efforts of the most gifted preachers had failed. The praying and faithful few were discouraged and despondent.
When Sunday brought out a great multitude, Fariss was appointed to preach, and having spent the morning in a retired spot in the forest in solitude with God, he entered the stand at the minute, and began the services. Slowly at first the scattered groups began to assemble. The sweet song and the short, fervent prayer settled and solemnized them, and the sermon began.
It is useless to attempt a description of the sermon. Suffice it to say that as he proceeded the interest and emotions of the hearers, and the magnetic power of the preacher filled with the Holy Ghost, held the lately seething and restless crowd as if spell-bound in soul and body, increasing in intensity every minute, until he came to the sentence denounced upon the fruitless tree in Matthew 21:19 "... LET NO FRUIT GROW ON THEE HENCEFORWARD FOR EVER...!"
Then, though he misapplied the text, yet powerfully summoning all of his resources, and unconsciously personating the avenger, he began to 'Cut Down' the Fruitless Fig-Tree... Stroke after stroke fell, and still the glittering blade rose and fell, until all classes of sinners and barren professors were ruthlessly hewn down and hurled into the abysmal depths of unquenchable burning!
There was no more preaching that day or the ensuing night—no chance for it nor need of it! Hundreds rushed to the altar; many could not get there, and therefore fell on their knees. The tents, the encampment, and surrounding forest were full of groups of penitents, and all night long the sounds of prayer and praise were mingled. Over two hundred were numbered as converts, and as many went away to change their lives, and try to bear fruit unto eternal life!
However, Let it not be supposed that the 'terrors of the Lord' were his favorite themes, or topics, in which his genius was chiefly developed. Divine love, as evinced in creation, providence, and especially in redemption, was the subject in which he seemed to revel as a congenial element.
Among the most vivid pictures photographed on the tablet of a memory crowded by the incidents of a long life is that of a short sermon I heard from him at La Grange College, Alabama, about 1831, while he was in charge of the circuit. It was upon Sunday—one of the coldest days of a winter memorable as the coldest and longest experienced in this country, the thermometer falling to ten degrees below zero on the northern side of my residence on College Hill.
At the signal for preaching the congregation assembled in a large, rather dilapidated room upon the campus—the chapel then not finished. The Faculty, students, citizens of the village, and several planters from the beautiful valley, filled the house, while a bright fire crackled in the wide, old-fashioned fire-place. The earth had been frozen for a week or two, and a fresh snow and sleet storm had been followed by a cloudless morning, with a fierce north-wind, which seemed to pierce to the bones and marrow of the shivering audience.
Not a particle of an icicle melted under the rays of the midday sun. We crowded into the well-ventilated old room, and nobody objected to being wedged a little, for Fariss was to preach—and we only hoped the talk would be a short one; if not short, it might be one of his sweet talks. And so it was— short, sweet; and much more, it was sparkling, rich, and aglow with piety.
After quoting a verse or two of one of David's inimitable outbursts of mingled adoration and praise, which always sound to me like the choral symphonies of universal created being to the unveiling developments of the mysteries of God's providence and grace, he repeated it: 'God is good—good in all he Does, in all he Allows, and in all he Does Not.'
Descanting awhile upon his theme as it is seen in creation and in providence, he seized the occasion to illustrate it: 'It is cold—very cold —and so it has been for many days. A bright sun today fails to thaw the frozen earth. But we have the sun, and are sure he will stay, and triumph at last.'
Then began one of those bright, poetic conceptions which, considering his education, seemed wonderful. It was impromptu—he had perhaps never heard of Milton, Montgomery, or Byron. 'But, suppose the sun should fail to rise tomorrow.' Then turning to the planters, in substance he said: 'Some of you are used to getting up before day-break now—you want to be ready to go to work as soon as you can. You get restless, disturb your wife and children, and make your hands get up, feed the stock, and prepare for work. The night is too long—you are greedy of big crops and of money.
Suppose the sun does not respond to your old clock on the mantel and your almanac-time. You scold at the meddling of someone with the clock. All deny it. Another hour is struck, another, and another, until it is evident the great clock-work of the world is out of order.' Then he described the consternation and universal horror pervading and increasing as months of darkness and despair succeeded, until the snow filled the valleys, and the streams were locked to their fountain-head with frost; with families isolated, food and fuel exhausted, death everywhere, and the wail of the few helpless and hopeless survivors borne over the lately crowded cities; the marts of commerce and the abodes of wealth now voiceless and dark as the tomb.
After the lapse of a year, suddenly a faint blush is seen in the eastern horizon, and rising and spreading, finally brightens into day, and every living eye sees once more the risen king of day. Then he pictured the scene, the shouts, the rapturous joy, the praise to God from every heart and lip—to the Father of mercies.
There was no outburst at the close, but a subdued and deeply impressive sensation of gratitude which tended to make the sacrifice of self and the performance of unpleasant duties more endurable ever since. A firm belief in God's goodness, in his works and ways, has been and is a source of the strongest, purest, and sweetest comforts of my life.
That short sermon served to give special definiteness and force to this truth. This singularly good and great man died prematurely, leaving a large and helpless family. He resided somewhere near the college. We were glad to give his children what educational advantages we could. I know nothing of them of late years—but James W. Fariss, with a few others, will ever stand in the picture-gallery of my memory like a column of crystal."
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