At Variance
LOUE Lord said, “Not peace, but a sword; for I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother.” Do you feel that there must be something wrong if loyalty to Christ collides with “loyalty to God’s first law of human order, obedience in the home “? Something wrong in the missionary’s presentation of the Gospel when its acceptance produces such collision? Surely there is something wrong, something wholly out of course, a discord in the harmony which sounds through all the keys. But is the discord in the music, or in our rendering of it? “If thy friend which is as thine own soul entice thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods... thou shalt not consent unto him.” This chord of the seventh perplexes us, but what if the music were incomplete without it? Resolve it properly, and you find the chord which follows explains it; your ear is satisfied. Dare we leave the arresting note unstruck when we see it written in the manuscript? The refusal, however gentle, to “consent” comes into direct collision — must in the nature of things, if you are a Hindu — with the will
of father, mother, friend who is as your own soul.
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While the power of Hinduism remains unbroken, there must often be the sense of a false note somewhere, as if the instrument called life were out of tune.
Lotus became illuminated by hearing that God’s light shone for her. So few things shone for her. I realised how few when one day, while we were with her, the sound of a tambourine and a fiddle out in the street made her eyes dance. It was the men’s Itinerating Band which had come to her village, and was gathering a congregation by singing in the street. “Oh, if I could only see them!” cried Lotus; and flinging widows’ rules to the winds, she ran out into the courtyard with the eagerness of a child, and looked over the wall, and for three blissful minutes drank in joy. “But it was so wrong of me!” and poor Lotus hid her face ashamed, as, startled at her audacity, she crouched in the darkest corner of the dark little room. “I forgot I ought never to have looked. But oh, I did want so much to see! I wish it were not wrong.”
Five years of repression of every natural instinct had not quenched the love of life in her. The human within us is a strange, strong thing. Compress it, it eludes you, and escapes you, and disappears, to reappear as it was made at first. Lotus had been fashioned for delight. A small mud-walled courtyard, two small windowless rooms, no outlook, nothing but a strip of ground about two yards long behind, is it much to serve for all your world? Lotus at seventeen is hot with life. Sometimes the low laugh breaks bounds, and ripples out, but always it is quickly checked, for Lotus is a widow.
She never really was a wife. Looking back, it is confused. Crimson silk raiment edged with gold, numbers of new and glorious jewels, flowers round her neck and in her hair — the scent of jessamine brings it all back — cakes, delicious unlimited cakes; rides in a decorated car, with some one sitting opposite and little children at her knee, while men in front blew conch-shells, and men behind clanged cymbals, and all the delightful abandon of noise made a sea of sound about her. And in the evening many lights, and the subtle perfume of sandal-wood, and the flower-ball game, while musicians twanged and sang their never-ending song, and otto of roses was sprinkled about, and everyone laughed and was glad. Then suddenly a thunderclap, a darkening down of everything, for she had become a widow. And the childish heart was frightened at first, for everyone looked at her and cried; and then, when they snatched her silks away, and tore off her jewels, all but two, spared in a moment of pity, — then she became rebellious. But they told her it was just her fate. Who fights fate? Be quiet, they said. And they gave her poorer food, as a punishment, she thought, which hurt her sore little heart the more, for she had not meant to do anything wrong; and she felt misunderstood. So all life’s play passed far from her, and all life’s sunshine too.
Three years afterwards we saw her for the first time, and told her about the sunshine stored up for her. At first it seemed too good to be true. But when at last she understood, her heart lost all its restlessness. The light brings peace.
Then, as it will, the light shone out on any within reach. The first to feel it was Brilliance, her cousin, “LET GOD’S IDEA GROW” 123
a childless and much despised young wife, who, though naturally bright, has become depressed and soured; for her life is dominated by a tyrannical mother-in-law, who considers Brilliance a failure and hardly worth her rice.
Brilliance certainly is sulky, but we felt that what would sweeten her was just what had lighted Lotus’ life, and this was denied her. “What has she to do with reading?” said the mother-in-law. Lotus quietly shone on her then, told her stories about Jesus, interested her in Him, got her to believe He loved her, though her mother-in-law did not. For a while she was unhindered in this gentle ministry.
Timidly, greatly fearing repulse, the light began to shine further. Not that Lotus could take it anywhere. The only place where she can shine is just the one place where she is, a room about eight feet square. But sometimes aunts and cousins come, and she does not hide her light.
One of those aunts is our friend, a motherly-hearted woman. One of our boys was very ill. We wanted a special herb to make medicine for him. It was not to be bought, but she had it, and hearing how we needed it, she sent it to us, refusing payment, “for friendship’s sake,” she said. There was a time when she was touched; she saw the beauty of our Lord, and was attracted by it. But her desire to know Him did not go deep enough. “I am a believing one,” she says, “like Lotus,” and sitting on her mat, with her dear little daughter beside her, just as she sits in the photo, she is fond of arguing at length that to be an inwardly believing one is quite enough. “You see no idol marks on my forehead. I never do anything idolatrous. Every morning I pray ‘Have mercy on me, 0 Jesus Lord! make my way prosperous.’ What more could He require of me?”
But one evening alone in the moonlight, the choice of her heart was made manifest. It was the night of the street fire festival. Each householder worshipped apart. She stood outside her gate with the wood for making the fire in her hand, and offerings for sacrifice. She knew it was all vain; but if she refused, her caste would hear of it; she would lose her acknowledged position, and be looked upon askance. So she stood there in the moonlight, no firelight yet with its earth red came into conflict with that white light. And she weighed in the balance Christ and caste. Then she stooped and lighted the fire.
And as it blazed she turned and saw we were standing close to her. She started; she had not expected to see us there. We usually leave the place earlier; but the long streets with their rows of fires had been full of detaining things, for the inagic of the East comes out in festival times at night.
The lane where her house stands is off the street. Hers was the only fire in it. And the palm behind rose black like a plume, and the archway under it framed the fire, and the moonlight filtered through the palm and tried to put the firelight out.
We stood there silent for a while. The woman was bending over the fire, her face was working. We could see it by the flame. Then it set. “I have chosen,” she said; “a thousand words — what “THE LIVE PAIN BURNETH LIKE A LAMP” 125
will they do?” But it was not the time for a thousand words.
After this it was more difficult for Lotus; but still, while any would listen, she spoke, till her liberty passed as life’s play had passed, very suddenly.
An idolatrous rite was in progress. Lotus refused to take part in it. She had often talked to her mother and father, but they had taken no notice. Now it seemed to dawn upon them that this “Jesus doctrine talk” was more than talk, and they shut her up in a small back room, and locked the door.
Once we had asked her whether, beloved as she is by her parents, it would be possible for her to be baptized and live at home as a Christian. There is a deep square well at the end of the street where her home is. She pointed out in the well’s direction: “My parents would rather see me under water, dead, than a Christian.” Then her brown eyes filled with trouble: “It is not only that; it would grieve my mother. Because I am a widow she never goes out of the courtyard except before daylight and after dark. But she never taunts me; she loves me. Her love holds me back from grieving her.”
For weeks after that open confession we saw nothing of Lotus, and heard nothing of her. Then one evening two of us were allowed in for a minute. Poor weary Lotus; she was sitting in the back, looking out. She had been allowed to sow a few seeds in the strip of ground, and she called it her garden, and found pleasure in it. Her Bible had been taken from her. She was not allowed to kneel in prayer, — not that it mattered, her soul could kneel, — and she was forbidden ever to speak of Christ. Her mother’s love had “turned sour.” Her father was ashamed of her. Her relations constantly upbraided her. Her widowhood, they reminded her, was sufficient disgrace for the family, without any added affront. Was she the only one going to heaven? Her pride, they said, was most astonishing, and in a childless widow peculiarly revolting. There was only time to say a few words of sympathy and encouragement, and to urge her to look up through all, and show love through all. And then the mother called, and we had to hasten away.
There was a season of friendliness after this. We were allowed to visit her. But we were always shadowed by some member of the family, and no Bible-reading was allowed. This small indulgence, however, touched her very much. “My parents love me, they do love me,” she whispered once, when for a moment the watchfulness was relaxed. “Oh, it is hard to grieve them. It is like treading on my own mother’s heart.”
The parents are pleasant people. We had a long talk with them one day. They told us Lotus had pined like a flower deprived of air and light when they shut her up and refused to let us visit her. They did not like to see her so cast down, and they had risked the scorn of the street by letting us see her again. Would we not on our side be thoughtful for them? If our influence led to her breaking caste, she must be confined to that one small room till she is old and wise. Let her follow her own customs and bring no dishonour on the caste. Then all would be well. We felt our position acutely. The parents’ unusual frankness naturally made it all the harder for us to keep true to the one object for which, as Christ’s messengers, we were there. We explained to them how the matter stood, pleaded with them to let Lotus obey her conscience, and follow her Master. But in vain.
“God bless the missionaries; give them souls,” you pray: God hears your prayer, and gives us souls. Then, if we are working among those for whom following Christ means, as it meant in earlier days, Variance, there must be the burning of the fire which our Lord saw already kindled.
“Amma,” said Victory who had visited Lotus with us, “it brings all my own sorrow back.” Then she told us that what held her through was the verse given her before she came out: “‘He endured as seeing Him who is invisible.’ One cannot endure if one does not see. That strong verse rested me.”
Her words brought back the past. We remember how there was storm all about. The greyhaired mother lay on the floor and beat her head on her child’s feet, then caught them in her hands, “0 queen! My jewel! My mother!” she cried, using India’s last love word as she broke into love’s lamentation. Then as her child tried to raise her and kiss her, a sudden fury seized her. “Defiled! Defiled!” she screamed enraged, “would you stab me with your mouth? Ay, stab here! stab here!” and she tore her garment from her breast — “here where your head lay, my baby — stab here!” For seventeen years they had slept on one mat, mother and child together. They had shared one pillow, for they were one. Did a thorn prick the daughter’s foot? it had first pierced the mother’s eye. This is a Tamil description of their love for one another. Now that daughter had to choose through all her pain: should she stab that mother’s heart with her mouth, or drive another nail into the Hand that bore while it beckoned her? 0 God, when shall the need for such choice utterly cease? Can the world show anywhere a harder thing than this? Are all who pray prepared for it? It would seem that some are not. Perhaps this is natural. Would we ever rejoice in a victory won if we clearly saw the battlefield, where the wounded cry when the slaughter is made? We honour the martyrs of course, and count their age glorious. But then we forget what it meant to burn.
Sometimes, not content with the negative chill of silence, friends write disapproving of “such interference with family life,” and suggest a desirable compromise, and offer prudent counsel. “It is in truth an easy thing to stand aloof from pain, and lavish exhortation and advice on one sore vexed by it.” But when every nerve runs sore, for somehow you suffered, you could not help it, with both sides at once, what you need is different. Would those who so write, we wonder, have us teach that commands may change with changing times? — that we may follow the Crucified comfortably now — without His Cross?
Thank God for the comrades who never are chill. Their loving heart- warming sympathy reaches these souls in their great need, and helps them to be patient and brave. It is such a long patience. Only last week I saw the mother whose pitiful “Stab here! Stab here!”
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had followed her child for nearly seven years. “Amm£,” I said, longing to comfort her, “you have two dear little grandchildren now; and your daughter wants to welcome you; and your new son will welcome you. There is room in their home waiting for you. Your two little grandchildren call.” She tore at her scanty grey locks, and struck herself hard with her thin old hands: “She whom you name is no daughter of mine. He whom you name is no son. Grandchildren? I do not hear them call!” And she tore so ruthlessly at her hair that lest she should tear it all out, we fled.
This story, like the last, is very ordinary. Such is the atmosphere in which we sing our song. By reason of the multitude of oppressions the oppressed are made to cry; they cry out by reason of the arm of the mighty: God giveth songs in the night. Cry and song intermingle in the hard prose of life as in the Psalms: “0 iny God, my soul is cast down within me. ... In the night His song shall be with me.”
These facts call us to prayer. First to prayer of a national sort for the fall of the systems which create the conditions. Then to prayer which may be very personal. There are many like Lotus. They need energy and grand triumphant faith. They need no less the grace of a quiet love that never retaliates.
Lastly, and most hardly, we ask any to whom it is given not only to believe but also to suffer, to pray for those who are so hindered that they may press on to the heights of God, though the flints cut sharp and the feet bleed.
There are times in life when God gives us a choice.
Two ways open. Both lead homeward. But one is steeper than the other. The stones cut sharper. It is far more unknown. There is an impression — this is the way, and we walk in it. At first it seems a foolish choice, fruitless of any gain. But afterwards comes the consciousness that had we chosen otherwise we should have missed forever the rarest gift of joy. “Where grows the golden grain? Where faith? Where sympathy? In a furrow cut by pain.”
There are those who thus have chosen, not pain for pain’s sake, but the path that had to mean it, drawn by the passing of One before them up that way. There are those to whom there is no choice. The upward way must be the way that hurts the feet. Who can help them up that way? Surely only those who themselves are walking in it. Theirs must be the sympathy that understands and braces, the faith that cheers like a song. For heart may faint and questions crowd, “Is the Word true? Shall the faith stand? Is the work worth such woe as this? Can the day recompense the night?”
“Fight on and keep your hearts alive!
I have gone through where ye must go,
I have seen past the agony,
I behold God in heaven and strive.”
And Christ walks with you even now while the flints cut sharp and the feet bleed.
Are such tales too sorrowful to tell? Should we suppress the sound of the cry lest it hurt the too sensitive ear? But the Sword means this: Variance means this. It is the existence of this attitude, this refusal to allow freedom of conscience where the freedom would clash with caste, and the resultant strain of a drawing in opposite ways where two loves cannot but be opposite in their constraining, which cements the stones together in the walls of the Shah Najaf. Should you not know about it? You see Christ crowned, jewels in His diadem, wreaths of victory heaped about His feet. We see the vision too, and it inspires us.
But that we may the sooner see it, not by faith only but in splendid reality, let us follow with more sympathy all that happens in the deep mine underground, and in the workshop where the jewels must be chased. And as for the wreaths, let us understand there is more involved than gathering flowers. “God’s choicest wreaths are always wet with tears.”