Principalities, Powers, Rulers
IT may seem a quick transition from nursery to battle-field; but rightly
to understand this story, it must be remembered that our nursery is set
in the midst of the battle-field. It is a little sheltered place, where
no sound of war disturbs the babies at their play, and the flowers bloom
like the babies in happy unconsciousness of battles, and make a garden
for us and fill it full of peace; but underlying the babies' caresses
and the sweetness of the flowers there is always a sense of conflict
just over, or soon coming on. We "let the elastic go" in the nursery. We
are happy, light-hearted children with our children; sometimes we even
wonder at ourselves; and then remember that the happiness of the moment
is a pure, bright gift, not meant to be examined, but just enjoyed, and
we enjoy it as if there were no battles in the world or any sadness any
more.
And yet this book comes hot from the fight. It is not a retrospect
written in the calm after-years, when the outline of things has grown
indistinct and the sharpness of life is blurred. There is nothing
mellowed about a battle-field. Even as I write these words, the post
comes in and brings two letters. One tells of a child of twelve in whom
the first faint desires have awakened to lead a different life. "She is
a Temple girl. Pray that she may have grace to hold on; and that if she
does, we may be guided through the difficult legal complications. Poor
little girl! It makes one sick to think of her spoiled young life!" The
other is a Tamil letter, about another child who is in earnest, so far
as the writer can ascertain, to escape from the life planned out for
her. She learned about Jesus at school, and responded in her simple way;
but was suddenly taken from school, and shut up in the back part of the
house and not allowed to learn any more. "Like a little dove fluttering
in a cage, so she seemed to me. But she is a timid dove, and the house
is full of wickedness. How will she hold out against it? By God's grace
I was allowed to see her for one moment alone. I gave her a little
Gospel. She kissed it with her eyes" (touched her eyes with it), "and
hid it in her dress."
Only a little while ago we traced a bright young Brahman girl to a
certain Temple house, and by means of one of our workers we made friends
with her. The child, a little widow, was ill, and was sent to the
municipal hospital for medicine. It was there our worker met her, and
the child whispered her story in a few hurried words. She had been
kidnapped (she had not time to tell how), and shut up in the Temple
house, and told she must obey the rules of the house and it was useless
to protest. "If we could help you," she was asked, "would you like to
come to us?" The child hesitated--the very name "Christian" was
abhorrent to her--but after a moment's doubt she nodded, and then
slipped away. Our worker never saw her again. The conversation must have
been noticed by the child's escort, and reported. She was sent off to
another town, and all attempts to trace her failed.
And the god to whom these young child-lives are dedicated? In South
India all the greater symbols of deity are secluded in the innermost
shrine, the heart of the Temple. In our part of the country the
approach to the shrine is always frequented by Brahman priests, who
would never allow the foreigner near, even if he wished to go near.
"Far, far! remove thyself far!" would be the immediate command, did any
polluting presence presume to draw near the shrine. There are idols by
the roadside, and these are open to all; but they are lesser creations.
The Great, as the people call that which the Temple contains, is
something apart. It is to these--The Great--that little children are
dedicated; the whole Temple system is worked in their name.
"Have you ever seen the god to whom your little ones would have been
given?" is a question we are often asked; and until a few days ago we
always answered, "Never." But now we have seen it, seen it unexpectedly
and unintentionally, as we waited for an opportunity to talk to the
crowds of people who had assembled to see it being ceremonially bathed.
We cannot account for our being allowed to see it, except by the fact
that the Brahmans had withdrawn for the moment, and we being, as our
custom is, in Indian dress, were not noticed in the crowd.
Near the place where the idol was being bathed, with much pomp by the
priests, was a little rest-house, where we had waited till some child
told us all was over. Then we came out and mingled with the throng, not
fearing they would misunderstand our motive. While we talked with them,
the Brahmans, who had been bathing in the river after the water had been
sanctified by the god, began to stream up the steps and pass through the
crowd, which opened respectfully and made a wide avenue within itself:
for well the smallest child in that crowd understood that no touch might
defile those Brahmans as they walked, wringing out their dripping
garments and their long black hair.
How we searched the faces as they passed!--sensual, cynical, cold faces,
faces of utter carelessness, faces full of pride and aloofness. But
there were some so different--earnest faces, keen faces, faces sensitive
and spiritual. Oh, the pathos of it all! How our hearts went out to
these, whose eager wistfulness marked them out as truly religious and
sincere! How we longed that they should hear the word, "Come unto Me,
and I will give you rest"! They passed, men young and old, women and
children, and very many widows; and then suddenly two palanquins which
had been standing near were carried down to the awning where the idol
had been bathed; and before we realised what was happening, they passed
us. In the first was the disk, the symbol of the god; in the second, the
god itself.
"We wrestle not against flesh and blood; but against principalities,
against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world,
against spiritual wickedness in high places"--this was the word that
flashed through us then. That small, insignificant, painted, and
bejewelled image, in its gaudy little palanquin, was not only that. It
was the visible representative of Powers.
We thought of a merry child in our nursery who was dedicated at birth to
this particular Power. By some glad chance that little girl was the
first to run up to us in welcome upon our return home in the evening. We
thought of her with thankfulness which cannot be expressed; but the
sorrow of other children bound to this same god swept over us as we
stood gazing after the palanquins, till they became a coloured blur in
the shimmering sunshine. There was one such, a bright little child of
eight, who was in attendance upon an old blind woman belonging to that
Temple. "Yes," she had answered to our distressed questions, "she is my
adopted daughter. Should I not have a daughter to wait upon me and
succeed me? How can I serve the god, being blind?" We thought of
another, only six, who was to be given to the service "when she was a
suitable age." Her parents were half-proud and half-ashamed of their
intention; and when they knew we were aware of it, they denied it, and
we found it impossible to do anything.
We turned to the people about us. They were laughing and chatting, and
the women were showing each other the pretty glass bangles and necklets
they had bought at the fair. Glorious sunshine filled the world, the
whole bright scene sparkled with life and colour, and all about us was a
"lucid paradise of air." But "only as souls we saw the folk thereunder,"
and our spirit was stirred within us. There is something very solemn in
such a scene--something that must be experienced to be understood. The
pitiful triviality, the sense of tremendous forces at work among these
trivialities; the people, these crowds of people, absorbed in the
interests of the moment--and Eternity so near; all this and much more
presses hard upon the spirit till one understands the old Hebrew word:
"The burden which the prophet did see."
Does this sound intolerant and narrow, as if no good existed outside our
own little pale? Surely it is not so. We are not ignorant of the lofty
and the noble contained in the ancient Hindu books; we are not of those
who cannot recognise any truth or any beauty unless it is labelled with
our label. We know God has not left Himself without witnesses anywhere.
But we know--for the Spirit of Truth Himself has inspired the
description--how desolate is the condition of those who are without
Christ. We dare not water down the force of such a description till the
words mean practically nothing. We form no hard, presumptuous creed as
to how the God of all the earth will deal with these masses of mankind
who have missed the knowledge of Him here; we know He will do right.
But we know, with a knowledge which is burnt into us, how very many of
the units live who compose these masses. We know what they are missing
to-day, through not knowing our blessed Saviour as a personal, living
Friend; and we know what it means to the thoughtful mind to face an
unknown to-morrow.
A Hindu in a town in the northern part of our district lay dying. He
knew that death was near, and he was in great distress. His friends
tried to comfort him by reminding him of the gods, and by quoting
stanzas from the sacred books; but all in vain. Nothing brought him any
comfort, and he cried aloud in his anguish of soul.
Then to one of the watchers came the remembrance of how, as a little
lad, he had seen a Christian die. In his desperation at the failure of
all attempts to comfort the dying man, he thought of this one little,
far-back memory; and though he could hardly dare to hope there would be
much help in it, he told it to his friend. The Christian was Ragland,
the missionary. He was living in a little house outside the town, when a
sudden haemorrhage surprised him, and he had no time to prepare for
death. He just threw himself upon his bed, and looking up, exclaimed,
"Jesus!" and passed in perfect peace. Outside the window was a little
Hindu boy, unobserved by any in the house. He had climbed up to the
window, and, leaning in, watched all that happened, heard the one word
"Jesus," saw the quick and peaceful passing; and then slipped away
unnoticed.
The dying Hindu listened as his friend described it to him. And this
little faint ray was the only ray of comfort that lightened the dark way
for him.
Compare that experience with this:--
The missionary to whom this tale was told by the Hindu who had tried to
console his dying friend, was himself smitten with dangerous illness,
and lay in the dim borderland, unable to think or frame a prayer. Then
like the melody of long familiar music, without effort, without strain,
came the calming words of the old prayer: "Lighten our darkness, we
beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils
and dangers of this night; for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour,
Jesus Christ."
Could any two scenes present a more moving contrast? Could any contrast
contain a more persuasive call?
As we went in and out among the crowd, there were many who turned away
uninterested; but some listened, and some sat down by the wayside to
read aloud, in the sing-song chant of the East, the little booklets or
Gospels we gave them. We, who are constantly among these people, feel
our need of a fresh touch, as we speak with them and see them day by
day. We need renewed compassions, renewed earnestness. It is easy to
grow accustomed to things, easy to get cool. We pray not only for those
at home, who as yet are not awake to feel the eloquence and the
piteousness of the great "voiceless silence" of these lands, but we pray
for ourselves with ever deepening intensity:--
Oh for a love, for a burning love, like the fervent flame of fire!
Oh for a love, for a yearning love, that will never, never tire!
Lord, in my need I appeal unto Thee;
Oh, give me my heart's desire!