Shortly before the end of last year I found myself at Bunhill Fields Cemetery, the resting place of many notable Puritans, Calvinists, and Methodists. The words of the old hymn “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” passed through my lips as tears crested the corners of my eyes.

My wife and I were on vacation, and I’d chosen to come here. As it turns out, I’m not quite as good at planning exciting romantic vacations as I am at singing in graveyards. I began to wander as my wife started a sketch of an old tree that had broken through the fencing around a section of the graveyard. I started to read every headstone I could make out. Many of the saints you have likely heard of. Saints such as John Owen, Thomas Brooks, and Isaac Watts were all laid to rest right here, but their headstones had proven unable to fend off the effects of the centuries or were otherwise inaccessible.

As I walked I was surprised to find encouragement from headstones commemorating long-forgotten saints. These told tales of faith which had led them to give up everything to serve their church, to extend hands of friendship, to preach the gospel of Christ, to exemplify Christian fatherhood and motherhood, to feed the hungry, to clothe the poor, and a host of other good deeds I could only hope to see in the wider church today. The voice of the preacher rose up to meet me as I recalled his words of encouragement, “Therefore, since we also have such a large cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us lay aside every hindrance and the sin that so easily ensnares us. Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us” (Heb. 12:1).

Facing Glaring Differences

I chewed on the words and their consequences. As I looked around, I knew many who were here would have thought very differently on, let’s say, the doctrines of grace than I do. Many would have contrary views too on the gifts of the Spirit or the sacraments. As I continued to stroll, I was struck by how little those second-tier doctrinal differences mattered to me. I had no reason to doubt that any whose body had ended up here now found themselves worshipping before the Father. But what would I think if they all suddenly ended up on my Twitter feed, warts and all? What if their theological convictions were laid bare for our modern Christian audience to read, chew on, and spit back out?

The words of Hebrews spoke of the many witnesses I was presently surrounded by—the ones who had finished their earthly journey and had now moved on—but what about the ones the ones with whom I was currently in fellowship? I confess that though I believe in the local church and my heart is for it, my predisposition is to search for treasure among those who have long passed before I begin to look for it in those around me.

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