The Call Intensified
"Sometimes the men and boys will not go away and
let us talk to the women; in such cases I find
silent prayer the best refuge. In other places the
people welcome you, but will listen to anything
but the Doctrine of Jesus Christ; and this is
harder to bear than anything else I know."
_Anna Gordon, China._
"Let the people that are at home not care only to
hear about successes; we must train them that they
take an interest in the struggle."
_Rev. A. Schreiber, Sumatra and India._
"It is a fight making its demands upon physical,
mental, and spiritual powers, and there are many
adversaries. The dead weight of heathenism, the
little appreciation of one's object and purpose,
and the actual, vigorous opposition of the powers
of darkness, make it a real fight, and only men of
grit, of courage, devotion, and infinite patience
and perseverance, will win.
"_Have I painted a discouraging picture? Am I
frightening good men who might have volunteered
and done well? I think not. I think the right sort
of men, those who ought to volunteer, will be
attracted rather than repelled by the
difficulties._"
_Rev. J. Lampard, India._
WE got this photograph that day in December which we spent in the
friendly Brahman street. "There is not another woman in the town who
would stand for you like that!" said the men, as she came forward, and,
without a thought of posing, stood against the wall for a moment, and
looked at the camera straight. Most of the women were afraid even to
glance at it, but she was not afraid. She would not stay to talk to us,
however, but marched off with the same resolute air. For Brahman widows
as a whole are by no means an approachable race. Sometimes we find one
who will open out to us, and let us tell her of the Comfort wherewith we
are comforted; but oftener we find them hard, or hardening rapidly.
[Illustration: There is nothing to say about it except what is said in
the chapter. There is nothing much to look at in a Brahman street. But
that single simple street scene represents forces which control two
hundred and seven million minds.]
It is too soon to write about any of those who have listened during the
past few months, but we put this photo in to remind you to remember
those who are freer than most women in India to follow the Lord Jesus
Christ, if only they would let His love have a chance of drawing them.
We have been to the various towns in this and the upper curve of the
mountains, but we have not reached the lower curve towns, or half of the
many villages scattered close under the mountains, and, except when we
went out in camp, we have not of course touched those farther afield.
There are only five working afternoons in a week, for Saturday is given
up to other things, and Sunday belongs to the Christians; and when any
interest is shown, we return again to the same village, which delays us,
but is certainly worth while. Then there are interruptions--sometimes on
the Hindu side; festivals, for instance, when no woman has time to hear;
and on ours, and on the weather's, so to speak, when great heat or great
rain make outdoor work impossible. Theoretically, itinerating is
delightfully rapid; but practically, as every itinerating missionary
knows, it is quite slow. There are other things to be done; those
already brought in have to be taught and trained and mothered, and
much time has to be spent in waiting upon God for more; so that, looking
back, we seem to have done very little for the thousands about us, and
now we must return to the eastern side of the district, for some of the
boy converts are there at school, and there may be fruit to gather in
after last year's sowing.
But I look up from my writing and see a stretch of mountain range thirty
miles long, and this range stretches unbroken for a thousand miles to
the North. I know how little is being done on the plains below, and I
wonder when God's people will awake, and understand that there is yet
very much land to be possessed, and arise and possess it. Look down this
mountain strip with me; there are towns where work is being done, but it
needs supervision, and the missionaries are too few to do it thoroughly.
There are towns and numbers of villages where nothing is even attempted,
except that once in two years, if possible, the Men's Itinerant Band
comes round; but that does not reach the women well, and even if it did,
how much would you know of Jesus if you only heard a parable or a
miracle or a few facts from His life or a few points of His doctrine
_once in two years_? I do not want to write touching appeals, or to draw
one worker from anywhere else,--it would be a joy to know that God used
these letters to help to send someone to China, or anywhere where He has
need of His workers,--but I cannot help wondering, as I look round this
bit of the field, how it is that the workers are still so few.
We have found the people in the towns and villages willing to let us do
what we call "verandah work" when they will not let us into their
houses. Verandah work, like open-air preaching, is unsatisfactory as
regards the women, but it is better than nothing.
We spent an afternoon in the street this photo shows. It is a
thoroughfare, and so we were not forbidden; but even so, we always ask
permission before we walk down it. Such an ordinary, commonplace street
it looks to you; there is no architectural grandeur to awe the beholder,
and impress him with the majesty of Brahmanhood; and yet that street,
and every street like it, is a very Petra to us, for it is walled round
by walls higher and stronger than the temple walls round which it is
built; walls built, as it seems, of some crystal rock, imperceptible
till you come up to it, and even then not visible, only recognisable as
something you cannot get through.
Our first day there was encouraging. We began at the far end of the
street, and after some persuasion the men agreed to move to one side,
and let us have the other for any women who would come. Nothing
particular happened, but we count a day good if we get a single good
chance to speak in quietness to the women.
Next time we went it was not so good. They had heard in the meantime all
about us, and that we had girls from the higher Castes with us, and this
was terrible in their eyes. For the Brahman, from his lofty position of
absolute supremacy, holds in very small account the souls of those he
calls low-caste; but if any from the middle distance (he would not
describe them as near himself, only dangerously nearer than the others)
"fall into the pit of the Christian religion," he thinks it is time to
begin to take care that the Power which took such effect on them should
not have a chance to perform upon him, and, above all, upon his
womankind. So that day we were politely informed that no one had time to
listen, and, when some women wanted to come, a muscular widow chased
them off. We looked longingly back at those dear Brahman women, but
appeal was useless, so we went.
In one of the other Castes, the Caste represented by this row of men, we
found more friendliness; they let us sit on one end of the narrow
verandah fronts, and quite a number of women clustered about on the
other. They were greatly afraid of defilement there, and would not come
too close. And they had the strangest ideas about us. They were sure we
had a powder which, if they inhaled it, would compel them to be
Christians. They had heard that we went round "calling children," that
is, beckoning them, and drawing them to follow after us, and that we
were paid so much a head for converts. It takes a whole afternoon
sometimes simply to disabuse their minds of such misconceptions.
I heard this commercial aspect of things explained by one who apparently
knew. A kindly old Brahman woman had allowed us to sit on her doorstep
out of the sun, and bit by bit we had worked our way to the end of the
verandah, which was a little more shaded, where a girl was sitting alone
who seemed to want to hear. The old woman sat down behind us, and then
an old man came up, and the two began to talk. Said the old woman to the
old man, "She is trying to make us join her Way." (I had carefully
abstained from any such expression.) The old man agreed that such was
my probable object. "What will she get if we join? Do you know?" "Oh
yes; do I not know! For one of us a thousand rupees, and for a Vellalar
five hundred. She even gets something for a low-caste child, but she
gets a whole thousand for one of us!"
[Illustration: A Shepherd-Caste house of the better sort. We would give
a great deal to get into this house, but so far it is closed. You can
see straight through to the back courtyard where the women are, where we
may not go. The old man is typical of his class, a thoughtful man of
refinement of mind, but wholly indifferent to the teaching.]
They were both very interested in this conversation, and so indeed was
I, and I thought I would further enlighten them, when the old woman got
up in a hurry and hobbled into the house. After that, whenever we
passed, she used to shake her head at us, and say, "Chee, chee!" No
persuasions could ever induce her to let us sit on her doorstep again.
We were clearly after that thousand rupees, and she would have none of
us.
In the same village there was a little Brahman child who often tried to
speak to us, but never was allowed. One day she risked capture and its
consequences, and ran across the narrow stream which divides the Brahman
street from the village, and spoke to one of our Band in a hurried
little whisper. "Oh, I do want to hear about Jesus!" And she told how
she had learnt at school in her own town, and then she had been sent to
her mother-in-law's house in this jungle village, "that one," pointing
to a house where they never had smiles for us; but her mother-in-law
objected to the preaching, and had threatened to throw her down the well
if she listened to us. Just then a hard voice called her, and she flew.
Next time we went to that village she was shut up somewhere inside.
Often as one passes one sees shy faces looking out from behind the
little pillars which support the verandahs, and one longs to get
nearer. But it does not do to make any advance unless one is sure of
one's ground. It only results in a sudden startled scurrying into the
house, and you cannot follow them there. To try to do so would be more
than rude--it would be considered pollution.
Only yesterday we were trying to get to the women who live in the great
house of the village behind the bungalow. This photo shows you the door
we stood facing for ten minutes or more, first waiting, and then
pleading with the old mother-in-law to let us in to the little dark room
in which you may see a woman's form hiding behind the door.
But we could not go to them, and they could not come to us. There were
only two narrow rooms between, but the second of the two had brass
water-vessels in it. If we had gone in, those vessels and the water in
them would have been defiled. The women were not allowed to come out,
the mother-in-law saw well to that; never was one more vigilant. She
stood like a great fat hen at the door, with her white widow's skirts
outspread like wings, and guarded her chickens effectually. "Go! go by
the way you have come!" was all she had to say to us.
The friendly old man of the house was out. A friendly young man came in
with some rice, and began to measure it. He invited us to sit down,
which we did, and he measured the rice in little iron tumblers, counting
aloud as he did so in a sing-song chant. He was pleased that we should
watch him, and it was interesting to watch, for he did it exactly as the
verse describes, pressing the rice down, shaking the iron measure,
heaping up the rice till it was running over, and yet counting this
abundant tumblerful only as one; then he handed the basketful of rice
to a child who stood waiting, and asked what he could do for us. We told
him how much we wanted to see the women of the house, but he did not
relish the idea of tackling the vigorous old mother-in-law, so we gave
up the attempt, and went out. As we passed the wall at the back which
encloses the women's quarters, we saw a girl look over the wall as if
she wanted to speak to us, but she was instantly pulled back by that
tyrannical dame, and a dog came jumping over, barking most furiously,
which set a dozen more yelping all about us, and so escorted we retired.
This house is in the Village of the Merchant, not five minutes from our
gate, but the women in it are far enough from any chance of hearing. The
men let us in that day to take the photograph, and we hoped thereby to
make friends; but though there are six families living there (for the
house is large; the photograph only shows one end of the verandah which
runs down its whole length), we have never been once allowed to speak to
one of the women; the mother-in-law of all the six takes care we never
get the chance. One of the children, a dear little girl, follows us
outside sometimes, but she is only seven, and not very courageous; so,
though she evidently picks up some of the choruses we sing, she is
afraid of being seen listening, and never gets much at a time.
These are some of the practical difficulties in the way of reaching the
women. There are others. Suppose you do get in, or, what is more
probable in pioneer work, suppose you get a verandah, even then it is
not plain sailing by any means. For, first of all, it is dangerously
hot. The sun beats down on the street or courtyard to within a foot or
two of the stone ledge you are sitting upon, and strikes up. Reflected
glare means fever, so you try to edge a little farther out of it without
disturbing anyone's feelings, explaining minutely why you are doing it,
lest they should think your design is to covertly touch them; and then,
their confidence won so far, you begin perhaps with the wordless book,
or a lyric set to an Indian tune, or a picture of some parable--never of
our Lord--or, oftener still, we find the best way is to open our Bibles,
for they all respect a Sacred Book, and read something from it which we
know they will understand. We generally find one or two women about the
verandahs, and two or three more come within a few minutes, and seeing
this, two or three more. But getting them and keeping them are two
different things. It is not easy to hold people to hear what they have
no special desire to hear. But we are helped; we are not alone. It is
always a strength to remember that.
Once fairly launched, interruptions begin. You are in the middle of a
miracle, perhaps, and by this time a dozen women have gathered, and
rejoice your heart by listening well, when a man from the opposite side
of the street saunters over and asks may he put a question, or asks it
forthwith. He has heard that our Book says, that if you have faith you
can lift a mountain into the sea. Now, there is a mountain, and he
points to the pillar out on the plain, standing straight up for five
thousand feet, a column of solid rock. There is sea on the other side,
he says; cast it in, and we will believe! And the women laugh. But one
more intelligent turns to you, "Does your Book really say that?" she
asks, "then why can't you do it, and let us see?" And the man strikes in
with another remark, and a woman at the edge moves off, and you wish the
man would go.
Perhaps he does, or perhaps you are able to detach him from the visible,
and get him and those women too to listen to some bit of witnessing to
the Power that moves the invisible, and you are in its very heart when
another objection is started: "You say there is only one true God, but
we have heard that you worship three!" or, "Can your God keep you from
sin?" And you try, God helping you, to answer so as to avoid discussion,
and perhaps to your joy succeed, and some are listening intently again,
when a woman interrupts with a question about your relations which you
answered before, but she came late, and wants to hear it all over again.
You satisfy her as far as you can, and then, feeling how fast the
precious minutes are passing, you try, oh so earnestly, to buy them up
and fill them with eternity work, when suddenly the whole community
concentrates itself upon your Tamil sister. Who is she? You had waived
the question at the outset, knowing what would sequel it, but they renew
the charge. If she is a "born Christian," they exclaim, and draw away
for fear of defilement--"Low-caste, low-caste!" and the word runs round
contemptuously. If she is a convert, they ask questions about her
relations (they have probably been guessing among themselves about her
Caste for the last ten minutes); if she does not answer them, they let
their imagination run riot; if she does, they break out in indignation,
"Left your own mother! Broken your Caste!" and they call her by names
not sweet to the ear, and perhaps rise up in a body, and refuse to have
anything more to do with such a disgraceful person.
Or perhaps you are trying to persuade some of them to learn to read,
knowing that, if you can succeed, there will be so much more chance of
teaching them, but they assure you it is not the custom for women in
that village to read, which unhappily is true; or it may be you are
telling them, as you tell those you may never see again, of the Love
that is loving them, and in the middle of the telling a baby howls, and
all the attention goes off upon it; or somebody wants to go into the
house, and a way has to be made for her, with much gathering together
and confusion; or a dog comes yelping round the corner, with a stone at
its heels, and a pack of small boys in full chase after it; or the men
call out it is time to be going; or the women suggest it is time to be
cooking; or someone says or does something upsetting, and the group
breaks up in a moment, and each unit makes for its separate hole, and
stands in it, looking out; and you look up at those dark little
doorways, and feel you would give anything they could ask, if only they
would let you in, and let you sit down beside them in one of those
rooms, and tell them the end of the story they interrupted; but they
will not do that. Oh, it makes one sorrowful to be so near to anyone,
and yet so very far, as one sometimes is from these women. You look at
them, as they stand in their doorways, within reach, but out of reach,
as out of reach as if they were thousands of miles away. . . .
Just as I wrote those words a Brahman woman came to the door and looked
in. Then she walked in and sat down, but did not speak. Can you think
how one's heart bounds even at such a little thing as that? Brahman
women do not come to see us every day. She pulled out a book of
palm-leaf slips, and we read it. It told how she was one of a family of
seven, all born deaf and dumb; how hand in hand they had set off to walk
to Benares to drown themselves in the Ganges; how a Sepoy had stopped
them and taken them to an English Collector; how he had provided for the
seven for a year, then let them go; how they had scattered and wandered
about, visiting various holy places, supported by the virtuous wherever
they went; and how the bearer would be glad to receive whatever we would
give her. . . . She has gone, a poor deaf and dumb and wholly heathen
woman; we could not persuade her to stay and rest. She is married, she
told us by signs; her husband is deaf and dumb, and she has one blind
child. She sat on the floor beside us for a few minutes and asked
questions--the usual ones, about me, all by signs; but nothing we could
sign could in any way make her understand anything about our God. And
yet she seems to know something at least about her own. She pointed to
her mouth, and then up, and then down and round, to show the winding of
a river, and signed clearly enough how she went from holy river to holy
river, and worshipped by each, and she pointed up and clasped her hands.
There we were, just as I had been writing, so near to her, yet so far
from her.
But the greatest difficulty of all in reaching the women is that they
have no desire to be reached. Sometimes, as on that afternoon when the
child came and wanted to hear, we find one who has desire, but the
greater number have none; and except in the more advanced towns and
villages, where they are allowed to learn with a Bible-woman, they have
hardly a chance to hear enough to make them want to hear more.
Then, as if to make the case doubly hard (and this law applies to every
woman, of whatever Caste), she is, in the eyes of the law, the property
of her husband; and though a Christian cannot by law compel his Hindu
wife to live with him, a Hindu husband can compel his Christian wife to
live with him; so that no married woman is ever legally free to be a
Christian, for if the husband demanded her back, she could not be
protected, but would have to be given up to a life which no English
woman could bear to contemplate. She may say she is a Christian; he
cares nought for what she says. God help the woman thus forced back!
But, believing a higher Power will step in than the power of this most
unjust law, we would risk any penalty and receive such a wife should she
come. Only, in dealing with the difficulties and barriers which lie
between an Indian woman and life as a free Christian, it is useless to
shut one's eyes to this last and least comprehensible of all
difficulties, "an English law, imported into India, and enforced with
imprisonment," an obsolete English law!
We have no Brahman women converts in our Tamil Mission. We hear of a
few in Travancore; we know of more in the North, where the Brahmans are
more numerous and less exclusive; but there is not a single _bonâ fide_
Brahman convert woman or child in the whole of this District. There was
one, a very old woman; but she died two years ago. We may comfort
ourselves with the thought that surely some of those who have heard have
become secret believers. But will a true believer remain secret always?
We may trust that many a dear little child died young, loving Jesus, and
went to Him. But what about those who have not died young? I know that a
brighter view may be taken, and if the sadder has been emphasised in
these letters, it is only because we feel you know less about it.
For more has been written about the successes than about the failures,
and it seems to us that it is more important that you should know about
the reverses than about the successes of the war. We shall have all
eternity to celebrate the victories, but we have only the few hours
before sunset in which to win them. We are not winning them as we
should, because the fact of the reverses is so little realised, and the
needed reinforcements are not forthcoming, as they would be if the
position were thoroughly understood. Reinforcements of men and women are
needed, but, far above all, reinforcements of prayer. And so we have
tried to tell you the truth--the uninteresting, unromantic truth--about
the heathen as we find them, the work as it is. More workers are needed.
No words can tell how much they are needed, how much they are _wanted_
here. But we will never try to allure anyone to think of coming by
painting coloured pictures, when the facts are in black and white. What
if black and white will never attract like colours? We care not for it;
our business is to tell the truth. The work is not a pretty thing, to be
looked at and admired. It is a fight. And battlefields are not
beautiful.
But if one is truly called of God, all the difficulties and
discouragements only intensify the Call. If things were easier there
would be less need. The greater the need, the clearer the Call rings
through one, the deeper the conviction grows: _it was God's Call_. And
as one obeys it, there is the joy of obedience, quite apart from the joy
of success. There is joy in being with Jesus in a place where His
friends are few; and sometimes, when one would least expect it, coming
home tired out and disheartened after a day in an opposing or
indifferent town, suddenly--how, you can hardly tell--such a wave of the
joy of Jesus flows over you and through you, that you are stilled with
the sense of utter joy. Then, when you see Him winning souls, or hear of
your comrades' victories, oh! all that is within you sings, "I have more
than an overweight of joy!"