- Down To Earth

Rev. A. B. Simpson was a great preacher. “The greatest whose voice has been heard in New York City in twenty-five years,” Dr. Marquis said of him when that voice had been stilled by death. But he was no business man. In the light of the plain facts, Thompson’s remark, “Had business been his calling, some think he would have been one of the large financiers,” deserves no more than a smile.
To succeed in business requires that a man have a sympathy with the earth, an affinity for, and keen understanding of, the rough and tumble life of the world. These Mr. Simpson assuredly had not. He could come down to earth sometimes when necessity was thrust upon him, but he belonged on the wing, and he trod the earth but awkwardly when be was forced down. Even the eagle must descend occasionally to secure her food, but the earth is not her element. She is at her best only when she has a thousand feet of clean air beneath her broad wings.
Simpson had not the tough, fibrous mind necessary to fight his way to success in the business world. He was too idealistic, too gentle. He was so trusting that he would not watch out for sharp practices in others, and it never occurred to him that anyone should doubt him. When reminded once that a note would fall due at a New York bank the next day be turned to an assistant and said casually, “Go tell them to hold it a week.” He could not see the humor in such a remark. He would have been willing to “hold it a week” for others; why should they not do the same for him?
Though illy equipped to manage a paying business he early took a stand that made some kind of secular income necessary to him. He determined to imitate Paul who at one period in his life preached the Gospel “without charge” and worked for his own living. He refused to accept any salary, either from his Tabernacle or from the Society of which he was the head. So popular was he with a certain devoted stratum of the Christian public that he might easily have had anything he chose to command by way of monetary reward. His followers were generous almost beyond believing. (Even today The Christian and Missionary Alliance stands year after year at or near the top for per capita giving among all religious bodies.) He could with perfect justice have accepted a salary large enough to amply support his large family. He chose not to do this. Every cent that came into his coffers by way of contributions went to support the work of the Society.
Mr. Simpson’s personal income was derived from various business enterprises which he conducted in New York City. One of these was a restaurant, the actual management of which was in the hands of his son, Howard. This was a perpetual headache, and never netted him anything but grief. He also ran a book store which proved to be a fine outlet for promotional literature for foreign missions but which brought in almost nothing by way of profits. In addition to these he also maintained a commercial printing concern in the city. This business was a fair success in a small way, and managed to bring in enough income to enable him to support his family in modest comfort.
A. E. Thompson, in his Life of A. B. Simpson, says, “There can be no question that his business was the great burden that finally proved too heavy for him.” This may be disputed, for Mr. Simpson lived to be seventy-six years of age—a good old age for anyone, business or no business. However, the statement is valuable in that it is the opinion of a close friend of Simpson’s with whom he must often have discussed his personal affairs.
To finance one after another of his religious ventures he would sometimes borrow sums of money ranging anywhere from a few dollars to several thousand. For many years he managed to pray his way out of these financial holes, meeting every obligation fully; but in his declining years he found himself so deeply in debt that he was forced to turn to friends for assistance. All his undertakings had been entirely in the open. His own life had been free from any taint of covetousness or fraud. His debts represented the bad breaks which he had encountered in attempting to save the lost or minister relief to the suffering and the poor. He had meant only to do all he could to lift the weight of human suffering from the hearts of men. His judgment had not always been sound. Of his heart there was never any doubt.
Knowing the man and the circumstances a few of his well-to-do friends chipped in and paid him out in full. This enabled him to die solvent, but he left nothing of any value to his family.
His inability to provide for his family as sumptuously after he gave up his five-thousand-dollar salary, as he had been able to do before, did not make for peace in the Simpson home. Mrs. Simpson was not at first able to see her husband’s vision. She could not sympathize with his radical stand on money matters. Her practical nature would not be content with anything as intangible as faith. On more than one occasion she found herself without a cent to meet the heavy demands of the household. At such times Mr. Simpson would commit the whole affair to God in prayer and then go blithely about his business. His wife would stay home, look after the children, and do the worrying. He was much criticized for refusing to accept the salary which was rightfully his, but he steadfastly refused to change his position. He felt that he knew what God expected of him and his peace lay in doing God’s will as he understood it. Not until his old age did he receive one cent from his spiritual labors, and then only because the men of his board issued a good natured ultimatum and compelled him to agree to receive a small allowance for his last days.
We do not want to create the impression that Mr. Simpson was a visionary, a man wholly impractical. When necessary he was capable of sharp judgment and swift action. On one occasion a low character came into his office and attempted to extort money from him by blackmail. Secure in his conscious innocence he refused to enter into argument with the man. He simply lay hold of the back of his neck, marched him out into the hall, and tossed him downstairs! This seems so out of mood with the gentle character of the man of God that some may doubt the veracity of the story. But the incident is well attested. The force of gravitation may have aided somewhat the blackmailer’s descent to the street, but that the original impulse to descend came from Mr. Simpson himself has been established beyond a reasonable doubt.
He was, from his childhood, possessed of unusual physical charm. His few photographs—he was shy of the camera most of his life—indicates that, while his appearance naturally changed with the years, he remained through every stage of his development a most strikingly handsome person. There is reason to believe that he was in his early years a rather natty dresser, something of a Beau Brummel, indeed, or the clerical equivalent of it. With the deepening of his spiritual life he lost interest in outward appearances, and though his presence was always impressive when on the platform, in his later years he showed some evidences of preoccupation. His oversize sack coat appeared to have been cut out originally for Goliath, his vest just would not stay buttoned and his straight black tie had a deplorable habit of creeping over to the right or left shoulder and hanging there cheerfully through the entire course of a sermon. The listeners usually forgot within five minutes the unbuttoned vest and the tie askew. They were hearing a master engaged in the supreme art of interpreting Christ, and clothes did not matter. He had little time for recreation, but did manage to put in a few care free hours sometimes puttering around in a little wood-working shop which he had fitted up in the basement of his home. There is no evidence that he ever made anything worth preserving, but his little hobby helped him to relax, and his efforts enabled him to indulge in a practical way his incurable yen to create.
He lived for many years at Nyack within easy walking distance of The Missionary Training Institute. His days were usually spent in New York in his office, directing a thousand and one activities, ranging anywhere from the hiring of an assistant janitor to deciding the size of a native church building in China or the Congo. Always at night he would return to Nyack in time for a late supper (it was supper in the Simpson household). He was not a heavy eater, but liked his food tastily prepared. He drank no coffee, but could take on unlimited amounts of English tea. He was never a faddist. He had no religious scruples about food, but allowed his personal tastes and common sense to decide what he should eat. A trace of his Scottish origin may be glimpsed in this, that for breakfast every morning he enjoyed a big bowl of—yes, that’s right—oats!
Around home he was quiet and preoccupied. It is said that he never raised his voice, but spoke habitually in a low, conciliatory tone. He was sparing of words, except when someone did some little act of kindness for him. Then he would overflow with expressions of gratitude. He seldom retired before one or two o’clock in the morning, the hours after supper being spent in his own room in prayer and study or in writing the numerous books and articles which came from his heart in a steady stream for half a lifetime.
“O Mrs. Simpson,” said a friend one day, “I’m curious. Tell me why your bedspreads are spotted all over with ink.” Mrs. Simpson had grown patient with the years. “It’s the Doctor,” she explained. “You see, he writes in bed, and sometimes he nods, and his pen falls onto the bedspread and leaves a spot.”
He was always up the next morning bright and early and on his way to New York by time six o’clock train. How he managed on four hours sleep is one of those minor mysteries we run into sometimes when we examine the lives of the world’s great. We do not try to explain it.
Mr. Simpson had convictions about medicine, and never used remedies at any time after he had come out into the light of divine healing. He was wise enough to hold to his convictions as being personal matters between himself and God. He never tried to screw them down upon the consciences of others. He had no phobia concerning doctors as some of his followers have had. “If you cannot have faith for your healing,” he used to tell inquirers, “then get the best physician you are able to afford.” He occasionally let down the bars on remedies on one count—if the word remedy does indeed describe the lowly cough drop. He did carry cough drops with him sometimes to ease the troublesome tickle in his throat. Once when preaching in Carnegie Hall in Pittsburgh he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and, along with the ‘kerchief came out a handful of cough drops. They rattled like marbles all over the platform! Mr. Simpson accepted the situation with smiling gravity and came off without loss of face, no mean achievement when it is remembered that he constantly had following him hecklers who would have paid good money to prove that he was not living what he preached.
There is some difference of opinion on the question of whether or not Mr. Simpson had a sense of humor. The facts are probably that he did originally have a good fund of native humor, but that his rigorous Calvinistic upbringing either destroyed it or made him so ashamed of it that he never indulged it except when caught off guard. Certainly, he had nothing of the good-humored fun in him that Spurgeon had, or Luther or D. L. Moody, though he could laugh heartily in his weak moments. He was heard on at least one occasion roaring with laughter like any plebeian at the side splitting stories of the Episcopalian rector, Dr. Henry Wilson.
Once in the Gospel Tabernacle he was sitting with a number of other ministers listening to a sermon by his friend William T. MacArthur. Suddenly the audience broke out into gales of laughter. MacArthur waited for them to quiet down, but the volume of laughter grew and continued so long that he finally turned to ask Mr. Simpson, who was the chairman, to do something to restore order. He was further dismayed to see Simpson slumped down in a heap on his chair, rocking with uncontrollable mirth! Those who have heard Mr. MacArthur in his prime will easily find it in their hearts to forgive Mr. Simpson!
The office staff at Alliance headquarters knew the privilege of working for a man who managed to act like a Christian all day long, who was thoughtful, fair, tolerant and quiet spoken; but they also knew the difficulty of working for a human dynamo who never knew his own strength, and who judged everybody by himself. Curiously enough Mr. Simpson did not always pick his help from among his own followers, but often had working for him Catholics, Jews, and persons of no faith whatsoever. He treated them all alike.
His extreme modesty led him to refuse the degree of Doctor of Divinity offered him by a southern college in recognition of his scholarship and outstanding accomplishments. His reason was simply that he did not want any honor “that would exalt him in any measure above the lowliest of his brethren.” His friend, Rev. Kenneth Mackenzie, who was responsible for this story, seemed to feel that this was a mistake on Simpson’s part. He believed that a degree might have given him certain useful prestige before a religious world which sets much store by such things. On that subject, I do not risk an opinion. But he could not escape a degree. The grateful Christian public, by a kind of spiritual instinct, conferred a degree upon him, which, in spite of his reluctance, he carried to the end of his days.