Saved Alone

It's still well with my soul

The Abide Project recently hosted the ‘Conference of Confessional Christian Reformed Churches.’ In this video, two reverends summarize the second day of this conference.

I’m no longer a member of the Christian Reformed Church, so I won’t ask the questions that those within the CRC are asking. 

Like, if the Abide Project’s goal was to see the HSR approved and the definition of unchastity given confessional status, then—given this current state of Mission Accomplished—why is the group still meeting? And what will they seek to accomplish now?

Or, why do the reverends equate exception-taking to dishonesty (7:35)? Why is it so important that those who disagree be identifiable and identified?

If I were still part of the CRC, I’d say this sounds like the eerie beginning of an Orwellian tale in which the Big Brother of Confessionalism attempts to ban thoughtcrime. It would seem to me that a group of fundamentalists might be preparing to take inventory of the unorthodox. I would then remind you that people don’t take inventory unless they have designs on the capital—human or otherwise—that’s being counted. It remains to be seen whether today’s heretics—like Michael Servetus at the hands of Calvin—will be burned at the stake or treated more mercifully.

But like I said, I’ll refrain from commenting on Abide Project’s message, agenda, and strategy. What I’ve been thinking about recently is the Abide Project’s hymnsinging.

The ministers in the video mentioned the beauty of the group’s singing, describing it as “amazing,” “robust,” and “beautiful.”  I liked it, too. My favorite part starts here, at 1:41.

When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul.

When Peace Like a River reminds us that regardless the vicissitudes of this life, our eternal wellbeing is guaranteed. The wellness of our soul is immutable—whether we’re in the depths of sorrow, or on top of life, or on the cusp of the very moment of the second-coming.

It is well, it was well, it will always be well.

But it is not this hymn’s beauty that has caused me to stop and reflect. Instead, it is the irony of its selection. 

Horatio Spafford, who composed When Peace Like a River, was born in 1828 in Upstate New York. Mr. Spafford was born in the city of Troy, northeast of Albany. He later moved to Chicago, where he married.  He and his wife had four daughters. After becoming a successful lawyer, Horatio began to invest his considerable wealth in real estate in Chicago.

In 1871, the Great Chicago Fire devastated not only a large part Horatio’s adopted hometown, but also most of his personal wealth.

As the Spaffords tried to recover from the shock of their material loss, they planned a trip to England. In 1873, Horatio’s wife and daughters sailed for Europe. The family had planned to travel together, but at the eleventh hour Horatio decided to delay his own departure. Horatio would stay behind, he said, to catch up on business related to the fire and its aftermath. Horatio told his wife to proceed without him; he’d catch up with the five of them a few weeks later.

Midway across the Atlantic, the ship carrying Horatio’s wife and daughters collided with a Scottish ship. The vessel that ferried the Spaffords was badly damaged. It sank. Horatio’s daughters died; only his wife survived. If ever there has been time when sorrows rolled like sea billows, this was it. 

Via a telegram from Mrs. Spafford, Horatio received word of the accident and of his wife’s survival. Mrs. Spafford had good news and bad news. Mrs. Spafford condensed all the news into a two-word message. “Saved Alone,” it said. Horatio sailed to England to join his wife. On the way, he composed the now-famous hymn.

Spafford and his wife would later have more children. Their son Horatio Jr. died of scarlet fever in 1880 at the age of four. The Spaffords eventually gave up on life in America and moved to Jerusalem. Horatio died of malaria in 1888.

Horatio had seen many ups and downs in his life, but he knew God’s presence, and the wellness of his own soul, to be unfailing.

Beyond the physical reality of Horatio’s life, his theological journey was even more interesting. Spafford had been a Presbyterian, but he took exception to the Presbyterians’ Reformed belief in predestination. Spafford believed and taught that God could save anyone, that there was no everlasting hell. Horatio eventually led a rift in his congregation. He and his followers—dubbed “Spaffordites” or “Overcomers”—eventually packed up their Arminianism and left Chicago to found a commune in Jerusalem.

You see, Horatio Spafford would never have been allowed to attend the Conference of Confessional Christian Reformed Churches. He was a heretic even among the Presbyterians. Horatio Spafford might even have been excommunicated for his refusal to believe in predestination. Were he around today, I’m sure that at the very least he’d be forced to file a gravamen.

And yet, in 2022, there Horatio was, back in Chicago. Spafford was not kept away from the Conference of Confessional CRCs by the unpopularity of his heretical beliefs. The Overcomer was not even kept away by the fact that he’s been dead for over 130 years. Spafford, a man born in Troy who had become something of a Trojan horse himself, had snuck past the guards that kept even The Banner from being allowed to attend this conference. And Spafford spoke.

Not only did Spafford speak into the ears of the confessional conference goers, his very words were spoken from the attendees’ own mouths. Horatio’s words were not merely spoken—they were sung. In unison. The words of this Arminian were sung by 120 confession-abiding Calvinists. And they themselves called it “beautiful.” And I agree with them.

As they sang Spafford’s words in Chicago, I wonder whether the singing throng thought about the man who composed this hymn. I wonder whether they know his story. I wonder whether they care. They don’t know my story—would they care?

I wonder how they reconcile that some of the most beautiful words we’ve learned to sing were written by a man their confession-abiding souls would not have allowed into their company nor into their Conference. In fact, they likely would have judged Horatio to be so far off the confessional mark that they would have ostracized and excommunicated him for his false teaching. But there Horatio was, and there the Abiders were. Singing in unison, just as Thou hast taught us to say.

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

I wonder at the irony of it all. I am reminded that if we limit our circles to contain only those with whom we entirely agree, we’ll find ourselves Saved Alone, just like Mrs. Spafford. I am reminded that God is Love. I am reminded that there can be good in the bad and bad in the good and that right and wrong are never as clear-cut as we’d like to believe.