The Word of a Gentleman

“And Jesus came to them and spake unto them, saying, All authority hath been given unto me in heaven and on earth. Go ye therefore, and make disciples of all the nations … and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” — Matthew 28:18-20 (ASV)

The way back took a year. Livingstone rewrote the journal that had sunk, and the men carried home the goods they had earned. In September 1855 they walked into Linyanti as heroes, telling everyone they had gone to the end of the world. Their faithfulness made Livingstone a trusted man among the Makololo.

The western route was too long and unhealthy, so he tried east, down the Zambezi to the Indian Ocean. In November 1855 he set out with more than a hundred men from Sekeletu, and a guide and interpreter named Sekwebu, who knew the languages of the east.

He had heard of a great waterfall the people called Mosi-oa-Tunya, “the smoke that thunders.” Sekeletu’s men paddled him to an island on the very edge of it, and he lay down and looked into the gorge. He wrote that scenes so lovely must have been gazed on by angels. Then he named it after Queen Victoria.

That moment says a lot. The falls had a name already. The people living nearby had known them for centuries, and they were the ones who brought him there. He meant the new name as an honour. But it fits a habit of mind, his and his country’s, in which what Africans knew didn’t count until a European wrote it down. Today the national park around the falls is called Mosi-oa-Tunya.

On the high, cool plateau north of the river he saw what he thought was healthy country for missions. The vision that would drive the next eight years of his life was born there.

On 14 January 1856 the party reached the point where the Luangwa River joins the Zambezi. Large numbers of armed people gathered on the far bank, and Livingstone’s men expected to be attacked when they crossed. That night he wrote in his journal one of the most famous entries of his life.

He admitted to great turmoil of spirit. All his plans might be wiped out the next day, he wrote, by the people across the river, whom he called by a contemptuous word his age used. Then he read Jesus’ promise to be with his disciples always, to the end of the world. That, he wrote, was the word of a gentleman of the strictest honour, and it settled the matter. He would not sneak across by night. He would take his star readings, though they might be his last. He felt quite calm now, and thanked God.

Notice two things. First, his faith and his prejudice sat in the same paragraph. The people across the river turned out not to be hostile, only cautious, as anyone would be when a large armed party came down the river. Second, nothing about the danger had changed. He was steadied by a promise. He didn’t feel calm and then believe. He believed, and then felt calm.

The next morning he ferried his men over in a single canoe, a few at a time, waiting on the bank until the last had crossed. The watchers did not attack.

In May 1856 he reached Quelimane on the Indian Ocean. He had crossed Africa coast to coast, the first European known to do so, though Portuguese-African traders had done it before him. He left most of the men at Tete, promising to come back and take them home.

Sekwebu sailed on with him towards England. Overwhelmed by the sea and the strangeness of everything, he jumped overboard at Mauritius and drowned. He deserves to be remembered as one of those whose skill made the crossing possible.

Jesus’ promise isn’t a feeling. It holds whether or not you feel it.

One thing to do this week: learn Matthew 28:20 by heart: “lo, I am with you always.” The next time you’re afraid, say it slowly, then take the next small step.