I
The bare audience room of old Boyle Avenue Church was almost empty;
only a few of those who had been present at the afternoon service
still lingered, one little knot by the door, another near the altar
rail. This is not the church where the real Europeans meet to
worship God, you know, nor is it even one of the worshipping places
of the semi-European population of Bombay. It is the oldest building
of our mission property and belongs to our native church. It is,
therefore, all the church home to-day that three separate
congregations can boast, our Marathi, Gujarati, and Hindustani
congregations.
It is a big, barn-like building situated in a thickly populated part
of the city which, just now, is largely occupied by Parsis. But
although it is old and bare and far away from most of our native
converts, they travel the long distances from their various quarters
and attend its services faithfully.
[Illustration: "I have a beautiful wife, as fair as your own,
Sahib"]
I tell you my heart glowed that afternoon as I sat upon the platform
and saw that room filled to overflowing. Not only were the wooden
benches crowded, but people sat in the aisles and stood around the
walls. Our Sunday afternoon congregation is usually just the
Marathis only, and does not occupy more than a third of the room,
but this day it was a union service of all our people to be
conducted in two languages only, as the Marathi and Hindustani
languages are near enough alike to be intelligible to both. And why
was this great meeting held? That was what thrilled me I suppose and
broke me all up so that when it came my turn to speak, I really just
couldn't and stood there like a big baby and cried. But the folk
were kind to me and joined me in my tears and when all I could
falter was, "Good-bye, God bless you all!" they just fell upon their
knees and such prayers went up for my speedy restoration to health
and return to India that by the time we rose from our knees I felt
better already.
They did not ask me to say anything more from the platform, but at
the close of the service men, women, and children gathered about me
for a last personal word. You see my health had failed because of
the climate of Northwest India and because of the burdens that each
of our missionaries has to bear (this isn't complaint, but just
fact) and so I had been ordered home. That part wasn't bad, for the
prospects of seeing home again, that meant America, looked pretty
good to me! Think of seeing a snow-bank after the one hundred and
twenty degrees in the shade in which I had scorched for years! Think
of drinking cool, unboiled water right from the tap, and all you
wanted of it! Think of being able to eat fresh, uncooked vegetables
without fear of cholera! Think of being able to do all those things
which are so delectable at home but so foolhardy in India! The going
home part was all right but the part that wasn't all right---- It's
hard to talk about that part. The doctors said that I probably could
never go back to India! Never go back to India again! Never go back
to the people and work I loved! I tell you it took all the manhood I
had to meet that blow with a smiling face and turn the other cheek.
But I started to tell you, not about myself at all, but about Shama
Bhana. As I sat on the platform that afternoon I singled out his
face among those of the men standing by the windows at the right
nearest the altar. Shama Bhana is a Brahmin and when I have said
that I have told you that he is a man of proud, distinguished
appearance and with an intellectual capacity of the highest order
that India boasts. I have neglected to say that Shama Bhana is a
rich Brahmin.
I had known this man for several years and we were good friends. I
had talked religion with him by the hour and I felt that he believed
in Christ and in our faith. But I had never been able to bring him
one inch, as it seemed to me, towards forsaking his old faith and
accepting ours publicly. As I saw his face there that afternoon and
knew that he had come to say good-bye to me, perhaps forever, I
longed to hear him confess Christ before I left India. I longed to
know that he had thrown his wonderful powers upon the side of our
warfare in that country where his influence would be so great.
The meeting came to an end at last and the crowd that had gathered
to say good-bye to the sahib and to wish him "Godspeed" had done so
and were gone to their homes, all but two little companies of people
still gathered in the church, as I have said before.
In all my farewells I kept my eye on Shama Bhana and I noticed that
he was still in the little group by the door. Finally I managed to
separate myself from the company near the altar rail and started
towards the door. Shama Bhana did not come to meet me but I saw him
step a little aside from the others as if giving me a chance to
speak to him privately. I availed myself of the opportunity at once.
I went directly to him, holding out my hand, and, Brahmin though he
was, he took it, his eyes full of tears.
"Sahib, it breaks our hearts to have you go," he said simply.
"Shama Bhana," I replied, "it breaks my heart to go without having
heard you confess the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour."
He looked at me without a start or quiver just as if he had been
expecting me to say that very thing. "Shama Bhana," I went on,
looking straight into his face and into his eyes, which steadily
returned my look, "Shama Bhana, you do believe in Jesus Christ, do
you not?"
"Sahib, no longer will I refuse to answer that question to you,
since you are going away from us, perhaps forever. Sahib, I believe
in Jesus Christ. There is nothing in Hinduism or Brahminism that can
compare with His life and character. There is nothing that can
compare with His teachings. I believe in God, the Father, and in
Jesus Christ, the Son; and I love them, as you, Sahib, have taught
me to do."
My heart swelled with joy and gratitude.
"Then will you confess your faith and your love?" I asked him,
hoping that I might see him baptized before I sailed for I coveted
him for the work in Bombay.
His face clouded. "That, Sahib, I cannot do. I have confessed to
you, knowing that you will not tell what I have told you here in
India. But I cannot acknowledge my faith to any one else."
Could it be that I had put too great confidence in this man's
courage and strength? I was disappointed but I could scarcely credit
my own disappointment and I probed deeper.
"Is it that you fear to lose your material possessions, Shama Bhana,
that you fail to claim the spiritual ones?" I asked him.
He drew himself up and looked at me in righteous scorn. "Yes, if I
should confess my belief in Christ, I would lose my wealth, and it
is great; but what would I care for that! I am young. I am strong. I
could earn my way and my family would not starve. No, Sahib, it is
not the fear of the loss of money that hinders me." But as he saw
the troubled look upon my face, he added, "I will tell all, Sahib,
and then you yourself shall judge if I could act otherwise.
"Sahib, I have a mother. You have never seen her for you cannot
enter our homes as your wives can, but the memsahib has met her.
That mother knows that I have talked long and earnestly with you.
She knows that I have read much of the doctrine. She knows, too,
that I no longer make offerings to the idols, and she fears that my
heart inclines to this new creed. Sahib, my mother a short time ago
took me out into our courtyard and pointed to the well that is in
the middle of the square. She said to me, 'Shama Bhana, my son, the
day you become a Christian, that day I will throw myself down that
well.' And, Sahib, she would do it!"
And I knew that she would. I could say nothing. I could only look at
him with love and sympathy in my heart.
"And, Sahib, that is not all," he continued. "I have a beautiful
wife and a son, as fair as your own, Sahib. I love my wife. I love
my son. But, Sahib, the day I confess Christ publicly these two,
whom I love more than life, will be taken from me and I shall never
see them again.
"Sahib, would Jesus Christ wish me to cause the suicide of my mother
and the separation from me forever of my wife and child? It is these
two things and these only that keep me from public confession and
baptism."
I could answer nothing. I could only hold his hand and say, "Pray,
Shama Bhana; Christ alone can tell you your duty. And He will make
it plain to you, if you leave it all to Him. I will pray for you too
as long as I live or, if it may please God to permit it, until I see
you again here in Bombay."
With the hand-clasp of brothers we parted: he, a Christian in heart
but a Brahmin by profession, went home to his wife and boy and the
old mother, strong in her faith; and I came to the homeland. I
haven't told you his real name nor can I and keep faith with him,
for, although Bombay is thousands of miles away, words when once
spoken may travel far. But I have told you a true story. May I add a
happy conclusion to at least one part of the theme? I am going back
to India! Thank God! My health has been restored. When I reach
Bombay shall I find Shama Bhana still a Brahmin or a confessed
follower of Christ? That is the question that is on my heart.