I had been sitting for only a short time when a strong, dignified old man entered the chapel.
The moment the storm-blown door opened, nearly everyone turned to look at him. There was no doubt who he was.
This was Father Mapple, the famous chaplain whom the whalemen greatly admired.
In his younger days, Father Mapple had been a sailor and even a harpooneer. But for many years, he had devoted himself to preaching.
He was now an old man, but he was still remarkably healthy and strong. His face was deeply lined with age, yet there was still a gentle freshness in it, as if a little springtime were beginning to appear beneath the snow of winter.
Anyone who knew nothing about his past would still have found him fascinating.
There was something unmistakably different about him—a mixture of a preacher and an old sailor. His years at sea had left their mark on the way he looked and carried himself.
When he came in, I noticed that he had no umbrella.
He certainly hadn’t arrived in a carriage, either.
His waterproof sailor’s hat was dripping with melting sleet, and his heavy pilot coat was so soaked with water that it seemed almost to pull him down with its weight.
He calmly removed his hat, coat, and wet overshoes and hung them in a small corner nearby.
Then, dressed properly for church, he walked toward the pulpit.
The pulpit was extremely high, as old-fashioned pulpits often were.
A normal staircase would have taken up too much space in the already small chapel, so whoever designed it had come up with a more practical solution.
Instead of stairs, there was a straight ladder leading directly upward, much like the ladder a sailor would climb when boarding a ship from a small boat.
The ladder had been fitted with beautiful red rope handrails, donated by the wife of a whaling captain.
The ladder itself was carefully finished and stained a rich mahogany color. Considering the chapel’s connection with the sea, it actually looked quite appropriate.
Father Mapple stopped briefly at the bottom.
He placed both hands on the decorative ends of the rope rails and looked up.
Then, with the practiced movements of an experienced sailor—but with the solemn respect of a priest—he climbed the ladder hand over hand.
The sides of the ladder were made of rope covered with cloth, while the individual steps were wooden.
That meant every step had a flexible joint.
When I first saw the ladder, I wondered why it needed to be built that way.
Then Father Mapple reached the pulpit.
To my surprise, he turned around, leaned over the edge, and slowly pulled the ladder up after him, one step at a time.
When he finished, the entire ladder was inside the pulpit.
Father Mapple was now completely separated from everyone below.
He stood there in his little elevated fortress.
I spent some time wondering why he had done this.
Father Mapple was famous for being sincere and deeply religious. I couldn’t imagine that he was simply putting on a dramatic show to impress the congregation.
No, there had to be a serious reason.
Perhaps the ladder meant something more than just convenience.
Maybe by pulling it up behind him, Father Mapple was showing that, for the moment, he had separated himself from the ordinary world.
Once he entered the pulpit, he was no longer concerned with worldly relationships or everyday matters.
For a true servant of God, the pulpit was like a powerful fortress high above the world, supplied with everything he needed.
But the ladder wasn’t the only part of the chapel that reflected Father Mapple’s life at sea.
Between the marble memorials on either side of the pulpit was a large painting.
It showed a brave ship struggling through a terrible storm near a dangerous coast.
Black rocks rose from the sea, while huge waves crashed against them in white foam.
Dark clouds rolled across the sky, and rain and mist blew violently around the ship.
But above the storm, there was a small opening filled with sunlight.
An angel’s face appeared within that bright patch of sky.
A beam of light from the angel seemed to shine directly onto the ship’s struggling deck.
It was as if the angel were speaking to the sailors.
“Keep going, brave ship. Hold your course. The storm will pass. The clouds are breaking, and clear skies are coming.”
Even the pulpit itself carried the same nautical design.
Its front was shaped like the strong, rounded bow of a ship.
The Bible rested on a curved wooden support designed to resemble the decorative structure at the front of an old sailing vessel.
The whole thing seemed filled with meaning.
The pulpit was like the bow of a ship.
It stood at the front, while everything else came behind it.
And in a spiritual sense, that was exactly what a pulpit was supposed to do.
The preacher stood at the front of the human journey, watching for the storms ahead.
From there, he was the first to warn of God’s anger and the first to face the force of the coming storm.
From there, he called upon God to send favorable winds and guide humanity safely forward.
Yes, the world itself is like a ship sailing across the ocean.
Its journey isn’t finished yet.
And the pulpit is its bow, leading the way into whatever lies ahead.