Of some prominent preachers it has been said that when you see them in the pulpit you wish they might never leave it, and when you see them out of it you wish they might never enter it. This could never he said of D. L. Moody. His character could bear a rigid examination. One of his closest friends said, “Doubtless he had faults, but I never saw them.” If his preaching was persuasive in the pulpit while addressing thousands, in the home or in the companionship of friends he was truly eloquent. He was impulsive, energetic, and resolute, yet he possessed to a marked degree patience, sympathy, and unselfishness. To the stranger his most prominent characteristic was enthusiasm. Nothing could swerve him from the deep-rooted purpose of his life, and in giving of his life’s energy to the various religious and educational projects which he launched and in which he was interested, there was but one motive—the proclamation of the gospel through multiplied agencies. But all his enthusiasm was perfectly controlled by what was perhaps his most remarkable quality—his “consecrated common sense.”
He was the soul of simplicity and humility. On one occasion he was asked to introduce Henry Ward Beecher as the speaker of the evening. “What” responded Mr. Moody, “introduce Beecher? Not I. Ask me to black his boots, and I’ll gladly do it.” A press representative once interviewed Mr. Moody with regard to his training for evangelistic work. Mr. Moody responded, “I am the most overestimated man in this country. For some reason the people look upon me as a great man, but I am only a lay preacher and have little learning. I don’t know what will become of me if the newspapers continue to print all of my sermons... Brooklyn hears every Sunday a score of better sermons than I can preach.” On one of Mr. Moody’s earlier trips abroad it is related that he received a most impressive introduction to some lord as he was beginning a service in a crowded hall. “Glad to meet you, Lord ____,” was the brusque acknowledgment, “won’t you please give those two old ladies a seat down there in the middle aisle?” Mr. Moody had a strong aversion to committees. In a meeting a motion was made to appoint a certain committee. Mr. Moody arose and said, “We don’t want committees. When you want anything done, tell Mr. So-and-So to do it, and you will accomplish something. One is enough to constitute any committee. If there had been a committee appointed Noah’s ark would never have been built.” He was accused in Boston of lowering the pulpit because he urged the churches to seek those who did not seek the churches. His reply was, “If lowering the pulpit means bringing it to the people, I would to God I could. If I wanted to hit Boston, you don’t think I would mount my guns on Bunker Hill Monument and fire into the air, do you?”
It seems a pity that there should be such a thing as “Last Work” for such a man as Moody. But earthly work must end for all of us. We may so live and work that the good influences we set in motion will live after us, and this Mr. Moody did. Toward his closing days Mr. Moody thought and spoke more of heaven and the life beyond. One day he said to his friend, Mr. Hawley, “Hawley, were you ever homesick for heaven?” This was at the close of a long, tiring day’s work. “Do you know, I’ve just been reading something from Rutherford, and I think I understand sometimes how he felt. See this,” and then he handed Mr. Hawley the book with this passage marked: “His absence is like a mountain upon my heavy heart; Oh, when shall we meet? “Oh, how long it is to the dawning of the marriage day; O sweet Lord Jesus, take long steps. “O my beloved, flee like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of separation. “Oh, that he would fold the heaven together like an old cloak and shovel time and days away and make ready the Lamb’s wife for her husband. “Since he looked upon me, my heart is not my own; he hath run away to heaven with it. “How sweet the wind that bloweth out of the quarter where Christ is!” This conversation took place in the early sixties. During the last year of his earthly career the same longing was at times greatly intensified.
It was his solicitude for others that made him conceal from those nearest him his first symptoms of a breakdown, though doubtless he himself little realized their serious nature. An invitation had been accepted to conduct a series of meetings in the large Convention Hall of Kansas City. Mr. Moody assisted by
seriously ill but preached six sermons after that. When he began speaking he did not show his weakness, but preached with his oldtime fire and spirit; but when he got back to his room he was exhausted. The first intimation that Mr. Moody’s family had of his illness was a telegram: “Doctor thinks I need rest. Am on my way home.” This was followed by other telegrams: “Have had a splendid day. No fever. Heart growing better all the time. No pain. Am taking good care of myself, not only for the loved ones, but for the work I think God still has for me to do on earth.” No man loved his family and lifework more devotedly than did Mr. Moody. He had often said, “Life is very sweet to me, and there is no position of power or wealth that could tempt me from the throne God has given me.” Only a few days before his going, in conversation about some future plans, he referred to the possibility of his lifework being nearly completed. In reply to a remonstrance and an attempt to encourage him, he said: “I’m not discouraged. There’s lots of hard work left in me yet, I believe. I want to live as long as I’m useful, but when my work is done I want to be up and off.” A touching incident is recorded concerning the journey home during Mr. Moody’s last illness. To get to Boston without loss of
time, connection had to be made with a certain train at Niagara. When the train pulled into Detroit it was over an hour late. When the engineer of the train learned that Mr. Moody was ill and was hurrying home he said: “Look here,” his voice choking as he spoke, “fifteen years ago I was converted by Moody, and I have lived a better and a happier life ever since. I didn’t know he was on board tonight, but if you want me to make up the time for you, I’ll do it. Just tell him that one of his friends is at the throttle, and then hold your breath.” As soon as the train got clear of the city the engineer pulled open the throttle and it is said that he made the fastest time ever made over his division. Including stops he ran one hundred and thirty miles in exactly one hundred and thirty minutes. Connections were made all right, and when the party awakened next morning they were on the Boston train.