JOE was an Indian, and an Indian with a very bad character, so bad that in his own country a price was set upon his head for the murders and outrages he had committed.
War had been his delight, but the neighborhood having become too hot for him, he determined to go to a far distant tribe. A company of missionaries happened to be passing the place where he was, and Joe obtained the post of driver to one of their wagons, as they went to the country of the Cree and Saulteaux Indians.
However, being in the company of Christians did not make Joe a saint. He hated religion, and if he saw a hymnbook, he would scowl at it as if it were a serpent. Of the Bible he had even a greater horror, and whenever one was opened he always went away. On the Lord’s day, not being required to drive, he would go off with his gun and spend the hours in shooting what game he could find, so that he might be well out of hearing of the worship of God.
As the party pursued their way, in the middle of July, there came a Sunday so hot that even Joe did not care to take his usual ramble, and he laid himself down in the shadow of one of the wagons, artfully selecting that of the missionary who was not expected to conduct the service.
But he had made a mistake, for the preacher whose turn it was to preach, was so overcome by the heat, that he had to beg to be excused, and the owner of the wagon, under whose shadow Joe was sheltering, offered to take his place. Hence the little company gathered about the wagon, and the meeting began. Joe was lying in the long grass half asleep, and was not a little annoyed at being thus disturbed, but to lie still while hymns were sung, and to see the hated Bible opened, was too much for him, he would move. So rising to his feet, he stretched his fine limbs; but the heat was great, and he was too lazy for locomotion, and he again threw himself upon the grass, and there he lay, full length upon his back, right in front of the preacher, his angry eyes flashing defiance at him.
“Lord, help me to preach to Joe,” prayed the man of God inwardly, as he saw the opportunity before him. Forgetting everybody else, in simple speech he set forth the love of God to all His creatures. He told his hearers that though God gave them rain and sunshine, flesh and fowl, corn and fruit, yet they did not love Him in return, and that instead of loving Him, they hated Him, and His servants and His book. But did He send the lightning to strike them down for their enmity? No, He had given His Son to die, so as to put away their sins. He had shown His love to them, to the worst of them, even to the murderers, and if they would only believe in His Son, He would forgive them and make them His dear children. Joe’s eyes were fixed earnestly on the speaker, who as he went on, watched the anger fading out of them, and hoped the Holy Ghost was casting out the evil spirit from the Indian. Shortly afterward the party broke up.
Joe did not forget that sermon. One day, walking beside another missionary, he said: “Didn’t the preacher tell awful lies that hot Sunday?”
“Lies, Joe? I did not hear any.”
“He said the Great Spirit loved poor wicked Indians. Wasn’t that a lie?”
“Not at all, Joe, it is in the Book. ‘God, who is rich in mercy, for His great love wherewith He loved us, even when we were dead in sins.’” (Eph. 2:4, 5).
“But was not that an awful lie, that the Great Father gave His Son?”
“No, Joe, it is in the Book. ‘In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent His only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through Him. Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.’” (1 John 4:9, 10). Then Joe said, “But it must be a lie, that He was preparing the beautiful country for them.”
“No,” he answered, “that too is blessedly true. It is in the Book. Jesus, the Son of God, said to sinful men, whom He loved, and had saved, ‘I go to prepare a place for you.’” (John 14:2)
The end of the conversation was this. Joe said, “If all this is true, missionary, I’ll stay with you, and never again go on the warpath.”
When they reached the station, Joe did not want to go further, but stayed to chop wood and work. Time showed the change that had come over him. His consistent life proved that he was a truly converted man.
The following year the smallpox broke out among the Indians in the station where Joe was, and caused the death of many of them. Three daughters of one of the missionaries died also, and there was no one, but their bereaved father, to saw the boards for their coffins, and to bury them.
The missionary, with whom Joe had had the conversation, came over to see the sorrowing parent, and to speak to him words of comfort, and while doing so, a message came, that a poor Indian was dying under the fence, and wanted to speak with him. He at once went to the spot, and found there a living mass of corruption in the last stage of the terrible plague of smallpox. Both eyes were gone, and the face was so disfigured that it was almost impossible to recognize the sufferer.
“Who are you?” said the missionary. “Are you Joe?”
“Yes, I’m Joe.”
“Is there anything you want to say to me, my poor friend?”
“I’m nearly gone, but it is all right. Only I would like you to take a message.”
“What is it, Joe?”
“I can’t see you, but I can see Jesus. You know that young man who preached that hot Sunday afternoon, and you know that my life has been a changed one since then. If ever you meet him, tell him that sermon made me a Christian. I’ll soon be with Jesus, and if the good Spirit will let me, I’ll come down to the gates of heaven to meet him.”
So died Joe, the once wicked Indian, believing that God loved him, and had given His Son to die in his stead, so that being forgiven he was made fit for the mansion the Lord had prepared for him.
W. L.