To the Outer Parts by Douglas Blair

TO THE OUTER PARTS Missions. Respectfully reprised.

BRAINERD UP A TREE

I hope the horse Is ably hitched. The pine-gum is Strong and heady In this stand of trees. And I have only The woolen saddle-blanket To keep me dry As the dew comes on. Up this gnarled oak, With its autumn brown And orange all but gone. The ride from the

C. by Doug Blair, 2011

Settlement at Five Birches Was windy and cool, But I was oblivious. Caught in the memory Of the noon-hour’s lesson. With no less than Fifteen natives gathered. Captivated by the story Of the Master blessing And breaking and passing The loaves and fishes. Moses is getting Very convincing In the translation. Seems they heard The tone of my voice, But followed more Eagerly his cadence And graceful hand-gestures. Fifteen months ago it was, He stumbled into My meeting, Drunk and disorderly. Even debilitated By the native brew, He was quick to take pity upon My then feeble efforts With the language. No genuine conviction Of soul in him, then, But a servant’s heart. My travel-mate and guard. Together we watched Nursing does and young.

He excused himself Early this afternoon, Hearing of a sick cousin To the south. I will be alone For the next eight days. Six villages ahead. God help me To speak the Word, Lovingly, earnestly. My strangeness to them. The village bustle, the hecklers. I always marvel how news Precedes my arrival. Children and elderly Usually first to sense Our good intentions. Curious, respectful, Very patient with my Use of language. (Moses predicted as much.) The drawing-slate helps. David! The moon has Broken through that cloud! Below, the horse, still. Slow breath steaming. Fodder completely gone. How does one sleep, standing? Stiff, cramped and weak, I probably could tonight. But inside, thoughts And memories quicken: The college, the indiscretion, The expulsion, the searching, The still, small voice Of my Lord. 3

And now here I am Up a tree, contented; With autumn branches Like medieval window-panes Against the night sky. With faces and needs To lift up from That last village. How they love to laugh. Even in face of Deprivation, winter, sickness. Child-like candidates for Heaven. Moses had made some joke. (Probably at my expense.) Gleefully they examined me. Head to toe. Perhaps the story of The bee-hive; Or the black bear Up the tree before me… My studies, my papers, Preparation? Given way to horse-back Prayers and sermonettes. God, you have said That the heart must believe; The tongue must confess, That Jesus Christ is Lord. So, I am here with Message of a Man From across the Big Water, Harvesting hearts, Honouring, hugging, Hoping for their dawn. Leaves rustle across pebbles Like scurrying children. 4

Forgive me, Father, No burden tonight To watch and wait. No throb in the chest. No throat-lump. No compulsion to plead. Just an extraordinary Sense of place, Of purpose, Of privilege. To be in this wilderness, Witness to a loving Saviour. I pray this cough Clears from the chest soon. Job’s Book The Thirty-Eighth, Speaks of Your majestic Authority over all The creation… the skies, The trees, changing weather, The ravens which cry. And I, oh Lord, Am seen by You…now sleep. David Brainerd, October 1745, New Jersey

PALM TREE GOSPEL

John Williams was dispatched by the London Missionary Society to French Polynesia in the Pacific (@1827). Eventually he died at the hands of cannibals. He relates one incident where he came across a farmer peasant, named Buteve, who through trauma had lost both his legs. Garden farming was a tedious 5

matter of crawling around with the aid of some rudimentary assist. When assemblies were called by Williams, Buteve could only make it as far as the pathway by his lot, where he would inquire of passers-by as to a song, a scripture or any short message shared. Williams heard of this simple, devoted man and paid him a visit in which he asked of the nature of his faith exercises: Answer: “Oh yes, I very frequently pray as I weed my ground and plant my food, but always three times a day, besides praying with my family every morning and evening.” Question: “What do you say when you pray?” Answer: “I say, Oh Lord, I am a great sinner; May Jesus take my sins away by His good blood; Give me the righteousness of Jesus to adorn me, and give me the good spirit of Jesus to instruct me and make my heart good, to make me a man of Jesus, and take me to Heaven when I die.” (John Williams, The Martyr Missionary of Polynesia, by James J. Ellis, 1889, S.W. Partridge and Company) The gardener got it! Simply by prayer, song, bits of scripture, meditation and dialogue. How much other “stuff” seems to occupy our pulpits these days. How many commentaries, testimonies and DVD’s keep us from the purity of this man’s experience of Christ?

FROM THE GLEN

Gang awa frae tha Glen Tae a fearsome place; Where tha darkened souls Hae na gleemps o’grace. Where tha work must fit A new tongue and race. Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel. “Tis for certs He has ca’d Ye, and ye must roon; 6

Tae a land o’ plagues And o’ blastin’ sun, Where tha rule o’ richt Hae just sceerce begun. Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile. There be muckle tae ken O’ tha people’s need; O’ tha crops that thrive, O’ tha life they lead; O’ tha daily thirst; O’ their warfare, greed. Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise. Tho’ tha ship be worsted, Tho’ tha trail be long, Tho’ tha beasts be awful, Ye’ll arrive anon; And commence tae cant Tha sweet Gospel song. Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love. And ye’ll spot tha dee When it starts tae click. As they bring their young, And they bring their sick; For o’ Jesus’ kind They ken nae sic lik.. Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used. An’ it’s nae sa muckle That their needs ye know, Whuch’ll fan tha flame, Cause your strenth tae grow; But tha confeedence “Tis your Laird says, “Go!” Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone. (Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa) Note: The story is told of the early day in the mission of Moffat when his camp 7

was confronted by a prominent chieftain. The man demanded to know the purpose of the missionary's visit and the authority who sent him. Through an interpreter, Moffat advised that he represented the greatest of all Chiefs and that he was bringing news and help for the best in life. The native said that he would kill Moffat and his chief. The territory was under his absolute control. He brandished a menacing spear. His retinue stood at the ready. Calmly Moffat loosened the breast of his jacket. Striding to within inches of the man's face, he pointed to his own heart and said, "My Chief lives here. If you intend murder, do it now, for I will not be held back from my purpose." The other's jaw dropped. His spear hand faltered. His bluff had been called. The two would soon become fast friends.

CHURCH BEHIND CHAIN-LINK

I’ll have to think about it. Something is happening here. This morning, H Block’s exercise period, East-side fitness yard. Usual pick-up basketball, Games of catch, Half-hearted aerobics. Twenty minutes out. Kipper got into trouble. Dealer Kipper, old-timer, The Joint’s entrepreneur. Smokes, bandages, magazines, canned treats. (No rumours of hard stuff.) Went long for a pass. Still pretty fit. Lost track of where he was; 8

Barreled into Dutch’s corner. Dutch, the Man. Protection boss. Double-lifer. Hand in every trick in the Joint. Favours, payments, or else. No love lost between the two. (Something about a disputed “tariff”.) Dutch’s corporals, Lonzo, Turk and Kruger Slammed him against the chainlink. Flurry of arms, feet and Shimmering steel. Kipper, down, motionless, Twisted in frightening posture. Bleeding from the nose, throat, shoulder. Hands on the abdomen. “Doc, get over here, now!” Call me Doc. (Short stint as a para-medic In Philadelphia. Before the armed robbery career.) The scene, heavy: Guts spilled, shoulder perforated. Expert shiv work. Tower guards not moving. Kipper, unresponsive to my efforts. Five terrible minutes. Buddy pressing torn jacket against open wounds. No vital signs; plodding C.P.R. Somewhere behind me Voices- the guards? Sounds like praying. Parson Eddy on the scene With his hallelujah bunch. Bible class-“born-againers”. I step back. Circle of prayer moves in: “We rebuke death. Devil, Kipper will not be taken! Raise him, Lord, raise him. 9

For your glory.” Variations on this rap continue. Hands on our fallen friend. Three guards, Ed, Nelson and Donny At the periphery, With the stretcher, Watching. “Devil, you have already lost. Our Lord whipped you at Calvary. We rebuke you, in Jesus’ name. We plead the blood of Jesus. Lord, now, like Lazarus. Bring him back.” And then it happened. I swear it. Kipper inhaled. Long and beautiful. A smile graced the bloody lips. The rascal-eyes blinked open. Alive! Jesus! Had to be thirty-five men around, Between us and Dutch’s Dark corner. Bible class will never be the same. Stretcher work underway. Eddy’s hand placed on my shoulder: “Check out John Chapter Eleven, Doc, John Chapter Eleven.”

SHE ALWAYS KNEW

Acts 16: 9,10 records the Macedonian Call of Paul the Apostle. In a night vision he saw a Greek man calling, "Come over into Macedonia and help us." This launched the spread of the Gospel into Europe. Charles Cowman had a similar supernatural call into Japan. With his wife Lettie 10

he would initiate the Oriental Missionary Society. This group of dedicated witnesses would accomplish a door-to-door visitation of every household in Japan, EVERY ONE! Friendly discussion and tract distribution were the focus of this effort. In one incident reported by a worker there had been an encounter with a middle-aged home-maker. She had received a brief account of the ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. She was told that He was freely available to carry her burdens and to usher her, one day, into heaven. Without any hesitation she reached forward and took the tract, saying, "I always knew there had to be a God like that." And that is the case with many. They are meek. They are approachable. Their lives have not been easy. Other more aggressive ones have always caught the brass ring. They are ready to hear that the true God relates to their struggles; offers strength and guidance freely; offers release from guilt and confusion; one day will right all wrongs and avenge and elevate the meek.

I am reminded of a key verse from Psalm 37. It does not read, perhaps, as one might expect: 11. But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. Peace? Many today in the western church have been instructed to fill in the blank with prosperity, comfort, influence or recognition. But primarily ours is a Gospel of peace, overcoming peace. I look today at Japan and the ongoing devastation of earthquake, tsunami and nuclear peril. I see crowds of people in tears with no ready solutions, but conducting themselves lawfully, quietly and in order. Theirs is a situation which must not be forgotten at the next thunder-clap of notable news in the headlines. They must have tangible support in cash, food, medicine and equipment. They must also be visited again with the message of the Christ of Charles and Lettie Cowman.

OF CAESAR’S HOUSEHOLD

(Taken from The High Calling, Meditations on Philippians by J.H. Jowett, 1909, Fleming H. Revell Company) All the saints salute you, especially they that are of Caesar's household" (Phil. 4:22) "That is a very wonderful thing that the general river of Christian courtesy should be flowing from the hard precincts of imperial lust and tyranny... Here is a clean, clear river streaming out of the very centre of a poisonous swamp. Here is a sweet spring lifting its healthful waters in the bitter waste. Here is a white lily spreading its radiant purity above a very noisome bed. This is the kind of miracle to arrest and startle the world. Goodness in unexpected places! ...A commissioner of one of our great London dailies has recently been exploring some of the awful howling wastes of London's slums. He went into one court, and up one terrible flight of stairs, where gin and sweat and swearing and putridity were horribly commingled, and in the very thick of it all he heard a woman's sweet, clear, triumphant voice singing, "We thank Thee, O our Father, for all things bright and good." Yes, and the commissioner discovered 12

that she was a saint indeed. But how adverse the environment. Where did the lovely fern find even the requisite pinch of friendly earth? God knows, and he provided it. It seems as though God's plants can laugh at circumstances, that they can sink strange roots right through their immediate setting, and reach such marvelous resources that their inhospitable environment counts for nothing."

DOSTOYEVSKY AND HIS TESTAMENT

He was found writing and circulating pamphlets against the czarist regime. Standing in front of a firing squad with other unfortunates, blindfolded. Waiting for that dreadful word, "Fire". But instead rough hands pulled him away from the place of death, yanked off the blindfold. Reprieve! And a new order to make profit from these troublemakers in the work camps of Siberia. Ten years hard, cold labour. Shocked and puzzled, Fyodor Dostoyevsky waited for his transport, wondering whether to thank God or Lady Luck. On the day of departure in the bustle of line-ups at the train, a woman placed a pocket New Testament in his hand, squeezed it, and gazed upon him briefly with eyes of hope. She was accompanied by another and together they whispered that he might examine it in his spare time. Then they were gone. That Testament became his hiding place, his focus of good, of hope. With stolen hours and stolen candle light he studied the record of the Man of Mercy and meditated upon the heart and purposes of Christ. He read it to others. They engaged in dialogue which effectively transported them from the harshness and purposelessness of the camp. In his words: "One sees the truth more clearly when one is unhappy. And yet God gives me moments of perfect peace; in such moments I love and believe that I am loved; in such moments I have formulated my creed, wherein all is clear and holy to me. This creed is extremely simple: here it is. I believe that there is nothing lovelier, deeper, more sympathetic, more rational, more manly and more perfect than the Saviour. I say to myself with jealous love that not only is there no one else like Him, but that there could be no one."

Following his detention, which included five years military service, life was difficult. Family debts threatened to rob him of most of the profits of his writing. A gambling addiction. But a good wife and a constant communion with Christ were his consistent salvation. He resolved in many of his works of fiction to make use of Bible stories and to consider the merits of Christ and Christ-likeness. Go to his classics and see this illustrated: Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov. His topics were often suffering and the inequities of life. To me it is a joy to consider that during the seventy-plus years of hard Communist experiment, including the suppression of Christian worship, these books were treasured in the households and libraries of the federation. It was, if you will, a long growing season of the wheat and the tares together and indistinguishable until the harvest began in 1989. Imagine the scene in Crime and Punishment where the murderer has come to the harlot's poor and ill-lit apartment. Her bruised soul has taken comfort from the account of Christ and other unfortunates like herself. She draws out her Bible and reads to Raskolnikoff the story of the raising of Lazarus. He asks, 'Could there be such a thing? The raising of a dead man to new life and opportunity? I am dead.' Leo Tolstoy, that famed author of War and Peace, Anna Karenina and Resurrection, himself a Christian, had the deepest admiration for Dostoyevsky and his works. It was as if the latter had found the pearl of great price in grace, undeserved favour with God. The former was stuck in the loop of legalism and pressing duty. He had never seen himself as a criminal saved for reasons known only to God. From the deathbed of Dostoyevsky in 1881, a daughter, Aimee, relates some of the last words: "Have absolute faith in God and never despair of his pardon. I love you dearly, but my love is nothing compared with the love of God. Even if you should be so unhappy as to commit some dreadful crime, never despair of God. You are His children; humble yourselves before Him, as before your father; implore His pardon, and He will rejoice over your repentance, as the father rejoiced over that of the prodigal son."

JAMES’ FAREWELL SONG Galilee, A strange new urge sweeps over me A pull now stronger than the sea, And I a son of Zebedee, With ships and gear reserved for me, With knowledge of rich fishery, Through years of wooing azure sea, Now casting off my bark for free To follow Christ who beckons me … Oh Galilee. Galilee, The gentle hills surrounding thee Resound with news of folk set free; Of sicknesses healed instantly, Of torment turned to sanity, Of guilt and shame absolved for free; All this our privilege to see, And Christ reserves a job for me? And to his course I will agree. Have you now lost your hold on me, Oh Galilee? Galilee, Your moods can change so suddenly, One moment calm as calm can be, The next one pitching dreadfully, Our small craft swamped with foaming sea, While Jesus sleeps aft peacefully. We’ve reefed and bailed in vain ‘gainst thee, Safe harbour but a reverie. Has Christ’s call brought this storm to me? Is this your plan to reclaim me, Oh Galilee? Galilee, What strange deep evil lurks in thee, Provoking now to jealousy? 15

What raging winds and waves I see, Where once you rolled so peacefully. At last, Christ rises to our plea And mounts the prow where all might see; Commanding you to let us be! Commanding such tranquility! Displaying his supremacy! Oh Galilee. Galilee, For years you lured me out to sea, Bewitching inconsistency; Your song, your spray, your scent to me Were tokens of some deity, Some Mother Nature thought to be The essence of eternity, Yet somehow fickle, fancy-free. But now I see, Christ masters thee, oh Galilee; No other helmsman now for me, oh Galilee; And from your charms I am set free, oh Galilee.

(Picture by Eugene Delacroix)

THE GOOD WHITE DOCTOR

The old missionary continued the trek, ravages of malaria notwithstanding. His stretcher bearers manifested almost a woman's touch when the spells came on. There were numerous villages yet to be visited. His reputation these days had always preceded him. Coming into a clearing he would be gladdened by the happy faces, the singing children and the studious though somewhat guarded faces of the elders. Medicines would be distributed. In measured hours he would get himself upright and dress open wounds; relieve toothaches; set and splint fractures; consult the women on the progress of their pregnancies. A modest supper, usually from his own caravan's supply, with tea and biscuits served generously around, would always settle the Good Doctor for the evening's event. Word had traveled to each community that he carried with him a magical "light box which told stories up against a white sheet". This of course was a rudimentary projector equipped with transparencies to assist in the presentation of a Gospel message. All the basics were addressed: the miraculous birth, the sinless youth, the baptism and wilderness testing, the happy ministrations of mercy and absolution at the Lake side, the growing opposition of hypocrisy, the vacillation of His followers, the anguish of resolve in the garden, the hill-top death, the empty tomb, the joyful new community thrilled with the reality of resurrection. For the Doctor, David Livingstone, the focus had to be the Grand Old Story. Of course he would minister to the people's needs and graciously endeavour to make each one feel included. But in the Dark Continent, with death just around the corner in a thousand different ways, souls were the thing...and Jesus the only gift for such soul hunger. On the last morning, the servants found the Good Doctor, kneeling bed-side in the posture of prayer. Arrangements were made to bury his heart right there in the land which he loved and served. The corpse was carried to the coast over a matter of weeks. His remains were identified by the scars of the large wound 17

on the shoulder inflicted years earlier by lion attack. Visitors now find Livingstone's remains commemorated in a focal place in Westminster Abbey. It was said that for two generations following, in the East African territory, it was only necessary to mention the Good White Doctor. Everyone knew Livingstone was meant by the term.

FRAGILE FLOWER IN INDIA

I knew of the name of Amy Carmichael from having read a number of her inspirational poems. I did not know of her solid Ulster Christian upbringing. Her repeated attempts to enter missionary work compromised by fragile health. Her ultimate settling in the Tinnevelly District of southern India. Her establishment of the orphanage and school known as the Dohnavur Institute. Her adoption, almost entirely, of Indian culture. Her rich sense of family, though remaining unmarried. The rescue of many very young local girls from the practice of Hindu temple prostitution and servitude. The thorough and seemingly strict program of lessons, chores and religious exercise. The frequency of disease and untimely death for the children. The number of rescues proving the diligence of their attending "angels" (fevers, delirium, choking accidents, cobras, returning influences of the old dark life). The falling accident which through complications rendered Amy bed-ridden for the final twenty years of her life. The change in assignment from meals, maintenance, lessons and admissions to writing, counselling and communing. For all of this information and many more stirring words from Amy (18671951) I am indebted to Elizabeth R. Skoglund and her book Amma: The Life and Words of Amy Carmichael, 1994 Baker Book House Company. What profound questions were asked by the rescued children, girls and boys! Where do the dead go? Is it a place of comfort or confusion? What is love? Is it only that which was offered to me by Hindu masters? Does the God Christ have power to change my angry ways? Where are all the flowers, music, parades and excitement in your religion? Such were the challenges faced by Amma and her dedicated staff, many of whom were orphans at Dohnavur in the first 18

instance. The author Skoglund makes very clear the understanding which motivated Amy in rendering comfort, "to come alongside and strengthen". There was to be no coddling or leniency, no unconfessed sin, no missed Hour of Prayer. But there were occasions of fun involving music, crafts, readings, outings in nature, swimming and the celebration of each child's Coming Day (the day of admission, birthdays often remaining unknown). Of comfort, Amy made the following comparison: "Who can tell how the parakeelia plant of Central Australia can resist wind, frost, heat, and in a tract of country where there is no surface water, remain green after three years' drought; so green, so full of life-giving water that horses and cattle feeding upon it need no water. We have a wonderful God, the God of all comfort, who comforteth us in all our tribulations, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. He can turn the least of us into a parakeelia-or better, far better, for a parable cannot show everything, He can comfort us so that we know how to discover to others the parakeelia's secret Spring." It is noteworthy that in preparing for her life of toil, hardship, care-giving, stamina and ultimate submission, Amy Carmichael drew heavily from the thoughts of Samuel Rutherford, Hudson Taylor, Geraldine Taylor, Charles Spurgeon, F. B. Meyer, H.C.G. Moule and Andrew Murray. Closing now with one of her poems: Thou art my Lord Who slept upon the pillow, Thou art my Lord Who calmed the furious sea; What matter beating wind and tossing billow If only we are in the boat with Thee. Hold us in quiet through the age-long minute While Thou art silent, and the wind is shrill; Can the boat sink while Thou, dear Lord, art in it? Can the heart faint that resteth in Thy will? (Edges of His Ways, London, S.P.C.K. 1955) I think yet one more would be appropriate:

Not that He doth explain The mystery that baffleth; but a sense Husheth the quiet heart, that far, far hence Lieth a field set thick with golden grain, Wetted in seedling days by many a rain. The End, it will explain.

ISAAC JOGUES

We miss the historical writings of Pierre Berton. In one of his books he tells the story of the Jesuit Isaac Jogues who was killed in New York state (Auriesville) through treachery in 1646. He was one of the six eventually canonized as the martyrs of Huronia, most notable being Brebeuf and Lalemant (1649). As Berton tells the story (The Wild Frontier) this young Frenchman entered The Society of Jesus with visions of martyrdom, almost chronically so. His early stay in Huronia around Midland was fraught with misunderstanding. The black robes seemed to hover around death giving baptism and last rites to 20

doomed sick babies and elderly. The very act of prayer and sprinkling was regarded as a form of witchcraft by the natives. Nothing was more loathsome than a witch. This earned Jogue his first near-death experience - running the gauntlet and suffering crushing or amputation of most fingers. The black robes also had the unenviable position of bringing with them strains of disease such as influenza and TB. Jogues' life reads as a string of mission travels through tortuous environments and captures, at one point enslaved by the Mohawks and ultimately adopted through sympathy. Meanwhile the trade strife between French and Dutch continued with alliances involving the Hurons, Iroquois, Mohawk and Algonkian. The Dutch were ultimately instrumental in securing his freedom and shipping him back to France via Cromwell's England (an unenviable passage for a Catholic). Jogues was almost unwilling to leave because of his new convert charges: '...who in his absence would console the French captives, who absolve the penitent, who remind the christened Huron of his duty, who baptize them dying, encourage them in their torments, who cleanse the infants in the saving water, who provide for the salvation of the dying adult? Divine Providence had placed him in the hands of the savages for these specific purposes...' It is interesting to note that Jogues always made it a practice to carry on his person a crude wooden cross and a copy of the Epistle to the Hebrews. With these he felt well equipped for any emergency. Back in France he reported with his memoirs to the Jesuits and to the Monarchy, but longed for a return to the New World, renewed in supplies and the hope of leverage to effect a lasting peace among the aboriginals. He set sail in 1644. Jogues' travels thereafter appear unceremonious. He had so toughened to the wilderness experience that the wild was no longer an aspect of daily martyrdom to him. He longed for the great and final expression of his love for the cause of Jesus. Sadly it came in the midst of vacillating peace negotiations, near the source of the Richelieu River, and a questionable dinner invitation and sudden assault with tomahawk.

The experience of evisceration and burning was to be that of Brebeuf and Lalemant three years later.

THOSE BIG FELLAS

I have many fond memories of Geri. She and her husband Allan played a very large role in encouraging my wife and myself in early Christian experience. She was the wide-eyed, petite, feminine one with a tremendous sense of humour, hospitality and gentleness in her treatment of others. Allan, a long-trip trucker, had a remarkable way, out on the road, in meekly coming alongside a fellow trucker, hearing of his gains or losses, and turning the conversation toward Christ. I wish that I had retained the details better on this story, but here goes. Geri had a sister who was in missionary work in South America with her husband. The native communities contacted were very primitive and significantly uncomfortable with outsiders. This was over forty years ago. The husband was called away by small aeroplane from their new and undeveloped mission camp. The woman busied herself with domestic improvements, singing and Bible reading to stave off loneliness. At night on the outskirts of the dark bush, she thought often that she was hearing the 22

sounds of furtive native feet, or perhaps animals coming close to the shack. She made a point of keeping some lights on inside. In heated prayer, she met God on many of these occasions. Her husband returned after about a week with good news of a safe and successful trip. One morning shortly thereafter, he discovered a native elder with a small retinue outside the home. The old man seemed embarrassed and apologetic. He admitted that, unknown to him, some of the younger tribesmen had planned to harrass and perhaps kill Geri's sister. They had felt threatened by the presence of the misssionaries. But each night as they approached the shack, "those big fellas" were there again, guarding the front door. Tall. Muscular. White. Almost glowing. Repeatedly the interlopers lost heart in the venture. " Please, sir, who were these men that you left with your wife?" Psalm 34: 7 The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.

READY TO GIVE THE REASON

Allan needed this break. Time to stretch. Check the tires. Load security. Last time here was about six weeks ago. Good food. Always full of drivers. Probably would recognize some. First name basis. Easy discussion about loads. Different fleets and working conditions. Police from jurisdiction to jurisdiction. This part of Pennsylvania was beautiful...particularly in autumn. Rolling hills. Small well-kept farms. But treacherous with the lowering of the sun. Lengthening shadows. Sudden steep down-slopes or curves. He felt his eyes strained and his frame tense. Thankfully no bothersome "lot lizards" getting in his way as he did his walkaround (pathetic young prostitutes cruising the service stops in vans). Once inside he immediately appreciated the warm lighting, cozy temperature and delightful smells. Waitress with the poofy hair and knowing smile gave him a grin and pointed to a few empty tables in the far corner by the mural with all 23

those beautiful painted Kenworths. What would it be this time? Breakfast? Hearty dinner? On the road daily regimen was cast aside when it came to eating or sleeping. Sleeping. Yeah, that had been the topic of conversation last time here, with a couple of drivers from Quebec. They had heard of a casual acquaintance who had fallen asleep at the wheel on these hills and missed a hazardous turn. Dead. Perhaps the trucker's greatest enemy. That and the usual squeeze faced by broker drivers in their company arrangements. Mileage allowances. Weight and hazard adjustments. Inter-state licencing. Fines. Fuel prices. Maintenance and repairs. The little guy's tab seemed endless. Waitress with a badge stating "Marge" arrived offering menus. "Good evening Stretch. Haven't seen you for a while. Where you from again?"..."Kingston. Got a big load of steel coils coming back from the mill. Been hittin' the stop-and-go pretty heavily on these hills of yours."... "Yeah, but they're beautiful, aren't they?" "I guess I'll have your hot roast beef sandwich with mashed, mixed vegetables, side salad with French and a pot of tea." "Right away Stretch, uh Allan. I'll bring that tea and a paper." Allan rubbed his eyes. He knew that he wouldn't be straining at the newsprint. Most of the drivers had teamed up in twos or threes at the tables. Craving company. Conversations were up and running on the Penguins, local election issues, activities of sons and daughters, gadgets and equipment to help with the job. From behind and above he heard a familiar voice: "Allan. Remember me? Jerry?" Allan did remember. Two visits ago they had sat and talked. "Hey Jerry. Sit down I've just ordered." Marge was quick on the uptake. Jerry opted for breakfast and coffee. Their previous encounter was sifting through Allan's memory. Jerry was driving a loaner. His rig was in the shop. Serious accident in a light snowfall. Problems with insurance adjustment. Loan payments. Imposing fuel bills lingering on. Company threatening to replace him. Not enough time at home. Tension developing with his wife Stacy. One boy starting high school and getting grades 24

well below his potential. Yep, Jerry had really wanted to unload. And he had chosen Allan. Good choice. For years Allan had been a member of Transport for Christ. Monthly meetings. Phone network. Frequent literature. Women's groups for the wives left at home. Allan had even considered chaplaincy work full-time, but eventually opted to stay in the field "speaking words in season to those who were weary". Again Allan could remember his part of the conversation. "Jerry, I've seen a lot of it. Booze. Pills to keep awake. Crazy scheduling. Picky highway officials. Tricky loads. Expenses juggled frantically. A mess once with another woman. Near divorce...I finally had to concede that I did not have all the answers. At a certain point I had to let go. I needed a steady helper. I needed Jesus. I was never going to be perfect. Jesus didn't expect that, or wait for it. He just wanted a partner. I have become that partner, and prayer and study of the Bible have taken on a completely new place in my life. Jesus is close. I know it. These battles I continue to encounter are the Lord's battles." Jerry had been quiet, respectful and appearing somewhat puzzled. They had talked back and forth for a good ninety minutes. And now, here was Marge arriving with the food. From the look on Jerry's face and the tone of his voice, Allan expected that he was about to hear something good... 1 Peter 3: 15But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear:

UNEXPECTED MUD BATH

(With thanks to Ruth Bell Graham and and her stories and poems of redemption in Prodigals and Those Who Love Them) The clergyman was a "shanty man" working among common sorts as a stevedore or "docker" at the docks of London. His apartment was humble. The 25

wages sparse. But the opportunities were many to get to work beside unsaved men in difficult circumstances, to gain their trust and eventually offer some light. One day in a hurried gangplank effort he was pushing a wheelbarrow of product onto a ship when a couple of playful workmates rocked the plank. Man and cargo fell into the low-tide Thames mud. Humiliated and looking for a way out of embarrassment, he sensed an inner urging: "This is your opportunity. Just laugh. Show them Jesus" The hand which reached down to pull him up out of the mud belonged to an uncommon stevedore. Dignified in speech. Confident in gaze. There was a story here. The missionary offered a simple meal back at his apartment. Confidence and warmth grew during the evening and the two new friends agreed to "trade stories". The missionary gave a brief account as above The other told a story of a previous life as distinguished physician and fortunate family man brought low by alcohol. His practice suffered. His wife became exasperated. He left unable to shake off the addiction. Providence took him to America, Canada, strange jobs, and then back to London to the current situation. That evening's introduction initiated a rich friendship, an unlocking of the promises of scripture, a commitment to Christ, a new and gratifying position in a pharmaceuticals warehouse, an end of the bottle and gradually a family reunion. Initially the doctor's wife deferred because the two daughters faced challenging hospital examinations upon which their future calling depended. But the happy day did come. The physician was restored to a prominent position of service and he took special delight in counselling young men in Christian life. Once on a trip to government offices, our missionary shanty man was approached by a young civil servant who asked if he knew Dr So-and-So. Replying in the affirmative, the elder learned that this young man had been helped through a life crisis by the Doctor. The Doctor whose life had been totally restored with the help of a Christian man whom he met in the mud. 26

(Adapted from Finding Men for Christ by George Dempster)

SHANTYMAN

It is good to toil With the men I know; And to trim the trees And to lay them low; And to haul their bulk To the stream below; I am glad that the Lord sent me here. And from time to time When the mood is right, In the vaulted wood With its dappled light; Where the blue-jay’s flash Quickens shrill and bright; I can sense that the Lord meets me here. There’s a constant strain From the whistle call; As we scale the heights Making giants fall; And we swing our steel And our chain and maul. And I know that the men test me here. But the dusk does come, And the campfires burn; And the grub is good, And our thoughts will turn To the ones at home, And for those we yearn; But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another time The alarm will sound; That a trunk has split; That a man is downed. And like mother birds We all gather ‘round. And I sense they are glad I am here. Then the Sabbath day Brings some extra rest; And a few will come, And by that I’m blessed; And we search the Book, And I share Christ’s best; For the Lord of the harvest is here. Oh shantymen sing! In the golden field; In the fishing hull; In the mineshaft’s yield; In the factory’s pulse; Sing of grace revealed; And the joy of the Lord finds us here. Note: Canada recalls many work situations in which humble servants of the Gospel got into the workplace, rubbed shoulders, earned trust and simply prayed and helped.

MY CHEST GOT EXCITED

Once on a James Dobson radio broadcast I heard a most interesting testimonial from an upper Amazon tribal chief named "Shoemaker". (Yanomamo tribe.) This man in a clicking dialect spoke through an American missionary and friend to give an account of his journey to Christ. Presently the majority of his 28

village are Christian. Coming from a culture of violence, drug abuse, tribal raids, brutal sports, feats of endurance, abuse of women and children and overwhelming involvement in witchcraft. Shoemaker acknowledged that he had studied the arts of the shaman to gain power and advantage in this violent society. A senior shaman encouraged him to become a heavy drug user and to spend hours chanting for the arrival and input of evil spirits. Entire nights were given to this process and he began to have visions which were both seductive and terrifying. A sick uncle called for his healing power, but he found that the more he chanted the closer the man got to death. The uncle did not recover. Other villagers suffering malnutrition, malaria and other diseases called for his help. He met with only mixed success. But the sensations of the trances, visions and notoriety kept him at it. He found that this ministration caused him to hate the patients and their infirmities. No compassion there. Bottom line, he knew that these practices were wicked and in direct conflict with the influences of a great and good Spirit in Heaven. He said that all shamans know this. He was addicted in so many evil ways. He also knew that he was courting death. A missionary family arrived in very humble circumstances. They launched into helping wherever possible around the village. They had bouts of sickness and hunger. He saw both children and parents crying occasionally about the straightness of their lives. Shoemaker began to have conversations with the pastor, hearing of that greatest of all Spirits, Jesus. The pastor assured that the slate of sins and demonic bondage could be wiped clean. Shoemaker stated, "my chest got excited". A struggle of conviction and hope followed for a few days, and then the weary man went out into the jungle, found himself an old dead-fall tree for a resting place and cried out to Jesus for deliverance. Immediately he had a vivid vision in which he seemed to be surrounded by a fascinating cage. A major demon approached him, laughing and inviting him to dance. Shoemaker tried in every way to avoid his advances, and finally and inarticulately cried out to Jesus. He testifies that he saw the Lord and observed Him facing off with the demon and commanding him to "go from this brother and never to return". The 29

release was swift and total. Everything about this man's highly tuned spiritual nature told him that he had indeed been rescued by indomitable goodness. Two weeks before Shoemaker's visit to the States, a telling episode had occurred in his village. Four men had gone hunting on the river, and one was grabbed by an anaconda. With every exhalation of the victim, the snake tightened its choking death hold. The man passed out. Finally one of his friends got up the nerve to swing his machete. Once. Twice. Thrice. A dull weapon. But finally with backbone severed the snake fell limp. Over the next few minutes the three were able to revive their friend. "And that, my American friends was the death grip evil spirits had on me. I will never experience that again. Praise to Jesus."

NURSING TOUCH

Another time Before shift's close I'll check in On dear Fred. And give a smile. And squeeze the hand. And tuck him into bed.

His left arm limp; His left cheek drawn; His speech now Slow and odd. And few have come. And few have cared. Oh use me now, dear God. A businessman He was 'til late. And numbers Ran his life. And midnight oil And corporate climb Had cost him home and wife. Is he asleep? Though bedside lamp Illumes the Quiet nook? The half-sipped juice. The handy-wipes. The dark blue Gideons' Book. My first steps heard. He slowly turns. And just as Slowly grins. His good right hand Wipes back the tear: "I thought...you might drop in." I touch his arm. I pull the sheet. I'm desperate For some word. The Testament Is open yet, At Psalms, One hundred-third. I take the Book, 31

Approach the light, And sit beside My friend. And one more time Recite those words Of mercy without end. Of God who knows Our darkest trait, Our hardest Pain to bear. But still forgives That we might live Forever in His care. I click the lamp. I must withdraw. His breathing Now is slow. Sweet dreams, my friend. This too will end. The Father loves you so.

FISH GOT AWAY

I remember a Revival Crusade in an auditorium in Windsor. Much advertised. Many churches on board. Big American Prophet-Evangelist to speak with an exceptional praise team accompanying. We had visited a Windsor Pentecostal church that morning and had decided to stick around. As the crowd developed, I took special note of a "young twenties something" dating couple who had brought along a male friend, seemingly unchurched. As the praise began, the couple appeared to get quickly into the choruses, hand clapping, arm raising etc. Their friend seemed to remain eyes forward and rigid. Periodically his buddy would place his hand on his back, give him the full frontal smile and wink knowingly, all the while singing at near top volume. The gestures seemed to say,"Isn't this great? Are you getting it? Praise the Lord!" 32

I felt that I was watching a tragedy. No sensitivity to the stranger; no understanding as to where he was at. Just a carnal desire 'to get him under the spout and watch the glory happen'. It didn't. The poor struggling young man half turned in the direction of his friends, lowered his eyes, mumbling something, and then spun on his heels bolting for the back door. As I watched his retreating back framed by raised hands and glowing and somewhat dazed faces, I sensed the Spirit whispering, "Know the man. Know the time. Know the place." If we have been called to be fishers of men, then we must manifest the same moxy as a good angler. What do they enjoy to eat? Where do they prefer to hang out? What time of day is to their best advantage? Are they accustomed to the school or to the lone depth? Are they patient or skittish? Must they be allowed to nibble for a while? But remember, no cheap plastic baits. Only the allurement of that legitimate and timely portion of scripture. Pray for the gentle word in season. Your part is to be sensitive and sincere. The Word will beget new life, not some formula or pitch or atmosphere. Not even some striking personal testimony. Humbly give your contribution. It is, after all, the Lord's business.

THE CRUMBLING CLAN

I can tell you how He helped me. I can tell you what He said. I consider each day gifted. I have lost my greatest dread. I embrace a broader family. I have dropped my trust in self. I am focused on the treasure, Which transcends all earthly wealth. I would love to take you with me 33

On this Christ-embracing trek; But I know just how the Spirit First must leave your plans a wreck. And the brokenness He looks for Seems a weakling's lot to you. And that list of natural talents, He will, every one, subdue. It must rate a poor investment While the game is still at hand, And the friends still pull the levers, And your house seems sure to stand. But if Love once grabs the heart strings And reveals the Cross in power, You may join the clan whose crumbling Has become their finest hour. Are you sure that it won't happen? That this Gospel is a lie? Comes to mind another breaking, But the rebel, then, was I.

RESCUED BY A LITTLE GUY

Ecclesiastes 9: 14There was a little city, and few men within it; and there came a great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bulwarks against it: 15Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city; yet no man remembered that same poor man. What did this man contribute? A word of insight directly from the Lord? An historic recollection of the weaknesses of the enemy? A keen awareness of human nature and a way to motivate fellow-citizens to best advantage? A gift 34

of faith for miracles? We do not know, but we do know as did Solomon, that we are not inclined to laud the little guy. Rather we heap praises upon and give much credit to the one "who does well for himself". Listen to the Psalmist in Psalm 49: 16Be not thou afraid when one is made rich, when the glory of his house is increased; 17For when he dieth he shall carry nothing away: his glory shall not descend after him. 18Though while he lived he blessed his soul: and men will praise thee, when thou doest well to thyself. 19He shall go to the generation of his fathers; they shall never see light. 20Man that is in honour, and understandeth not, is like the beasts that perish. We have an enemy attacking our cities. Indifference. Coldness. Worldliness. Here again poor little unassuming men and women hold the answer for victory. They have been exercising it for a long time. In small, frequent and gracious ways. Compassion. Courtesy. Their example holds back the onslaught of the callous. It comes in small deeds of consideration and affirmation. A smile; a listening ear; a door held open; a name remembered; a parking place forfeited; an arm extended to the elderly crossing the street or rising from a chair; a heartfelt contribution to the collection for relief; a hospital visit; a casserole for the bereaved; a basket of food or clothes or books; a helpful tip to the new employee on the job. The list is endless. It is fulfilled by the little ones. Little ones who understand and who love. Remember the fabled man with the oil-can who went about lubricating and smoothing all that he could. Wheels, doors, hinges, pulleys, machine parts. Things which would otherwise labour, grind, squeal or jam. Remember also Paul's observation in First Corinthians One: 26For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called:

27But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; 28And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are: 29That no flesh should glory in his presence. 30But of him are ye in Christ Jesus, who of God is made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, and redemption: Now, the battle is here. Will you step forward? Will you deliver the city? Unrecognized?