“We preach Christ crucified ... the power of God, and the wisdom of God.”―1 Corinthians 1:23, 24.
“SWING shut the city gates; run and tell the sentinels to stand guard, and let no one pass in or out till we have made away with these preachers of other gods.”
It was in the walled city of some twenty thousand inhabitants in the kingdom of Hyderabad, within twenty miles of its capital, as we were on a gospel preaching tour, the first ever made through the kingdom of the Nizam, years ago.
We had been traveling since early morning, preaching in all the towns and villages on our way, and arrived before the gates of the city during the heat of the day, and camped outside of its walls.
About 3 p.m. my four native assistants went into the city to offer Scriptures and tracts for sale, I promising to join them when the heat should be a little less.
Just after entering the gate, I met my native assistants returning, with a hooting rabble following them. Speaking to them in the Tamil language, not, understood by those people, they told me that it was not safe to attempt to do any work within the city. They had sold a few Gospels and tracts to both Mohammedans and Hindus.
Some of the Gospels were bound in yellowish buff bookbinder’s muslin. The Mohammedans sent messengers running through the streets saying that they were bound in hog skin, and warning the faithful not to touch them. The Brahmins sent messengers to tell the Hindus that they were bound in calf skin, and skin of the sacred cow, and telling them not to be polluted by them. They had not only prevented the people from buying, but had incited the rabble to drive the preachers out of the city.
“Have you preached to the people?” said I. “Have you proclaimed the gospel message?”
“No; we have only sold a few books and tracts.”
“Then we must do so now. I, at least, must go to the market place and preach. You need not accompany me unless you think it best.”
“We will go with you,” said they.
The rabble had halted and quieted as they heard the foreigner talking in a strange tongue, waiting to see what would come of it. We walked with slow and firm step up the street to the market. The crowd followed, increasing by the way. Seeing a foreigner boldly walking up the street, the Brahmin and Mohammedan zealots joined the throng.
We reached the center of the town where the main streets crossed, and where was the market place, with a roof supported upon large masonry pillars. Stepping up the steps, I said in Tamil to my assistants, “Place your backs against these pillars, so that no one can attack you from behind, and keep a sharp watch on all, but show no signs of fear. The Master is with us; His promise is good.”
As we stood there we could see three of the four city gates open, with the armed gatekeepers sitting under the arch of the gateway. Turning, I spoke politely to the people in Telegu, which was understood by all.
“Leave this place at once,” was the angry response.
“Friends,” said I, “I have come from afar to tell you some good news. I will tell that to you, and then will immediately go.”
“No,” said some, who were evidently leaders, “we will not hear you.”
We had seen the angry mob tearing up the cobble paving-stones and gathering them in the skirts of their garments to stone us with.
“We have no desire to abuse your gods,” said I, “but have come to deliver a message.”
Then came the order, “Swing shut the gates; make way with the preachers of other gods.”
I saw one nudge another, saying, “You throw the first stone and I will throw the second.” But all who had stones to throw were in my vision, and they quailed a little under my keen glance, and hesitated. I seemed to feel the presence of the Lord as though He were standing by my side with His hand on my shoulder, saying, “I am with you: I will tell you what to say.” I was not conscious of any anxiety about my personal safety. My whole soul was wrapped in the thought, “How shall I get God’s offer of salvation before this people?”
“Brothers,” said I, “it is not to revile your gods that I have come this long way; far from it. I have come to you with a royal message from a King far higher than your Nizam; I have come to tell a story sweeter than mortal ear has ever heard. But it is evident that this multitude does not wish to hear it.” They thought that I was weakening, and quieted down to see what was going to happen.
“But,” said I, “I see five men before me who do wish to hear my story. Will you all please step back a little? I will tell these five who want to know why I have come here and what is my message, and then you may stone me. I will make no resistance then.” I had been carefully scanning the crowd and had selected my men, for I had seen five honest countenances who had shown no sympathy with the abuse that had been heaped upon us.
“Brother with the red-bordered turban,” said I, addressing a venerable Brahmin who stood among the people at the right, “You would like to hear what my wonderful story is before they stone me, would you not? Be frank and say so, for there are four others like you who wish to hear.”
“I would like to hear what your story is,” said he, speaking up courageously and kindly.
“Brother with the gold-bordered turban at my left, you, too, would like to hear, and you with the yellow turban, and you with the brown-bordered, and you with the pink.”
I had rightly judged these men, for each assented. They were curious to know what I had to say.
“Now will you five men please come forward, and I will tell you alone. All you others step back! Step back! As soon as I have told these five the story you may come forward and throw your stones.”
The five came forward, the rest reluctantly stepped back a little. I had purposely chosen Brahmins, as I thought I could win them the better.
“Brothers,” said I, in a subdued tone, “what is it you chant as you go to the river for your daily ablutions? Is it not this?
‘Papoham, papakarmahan, papatma, papa sambhavaha,
Trahi mam, Krupaya Deva, Sharana gata vatsala,’”
said I, chanting it in Sanskrit; “and is not this its meaning? said I in Telegu:―
“I am a sinner, my actions are sinful. My soul is sinful. All, that pertains to me is polluted with sin. Do Thou, O God, that hast mercy on those who seek Thy refuge, do Thou take away my sin.”
These five Brahmins at once became my friends. One who correctly chants their Vedas and their mantras they always look up to with respect.
“Now do you know how God can do what you ask? how He can take away the burden of our sin, and give us relief?”
“We do not know. Would that we knew.”
“I know; I have learned the secret. Shall I tell you?”
“Yes, tell us.”
The multitude seeing the Brahmins conversing with the foreigner with evident respect, quieted still more and pressed forward to listen.
“Step back! step back!” said I, “it is only these five to whom I am to tell my story. If the rest of you listen it is on your own responsibility. Step back! and let me tell these five alone.” This only increased their desire to hear, as I went on: “Brothers, is it possible for us by our own acts to expiate our sins? Can we, by painful journeys to the holiest of all your holy places, change those sinful natures that you bemoan? Does not your own Telegu poet, Vemana, say: —
‘The Muslim who to Tirupati goes, on pilgrimage,
Does not thereby become a saint of Sivia’s house.
Becomes a dog a lion when he bathes in Ganges’ stream?
Benares turns not harlot into pure and trusted wife.’”
Hearing their own language chanted, the people pressed forward still more intently.
“Nay, brothers, it is not by these outward acts, even to the utmost austerity, that we can attain to harmony with God. Does not your beloved Vemana again say: —
“Tis not by roaming deserts wild, nor gazing at the sky;
‘Tis not by bathing in the stream, nor pilgrimage to shrine;
But thine own heart must thou make pure, and then, and then alone,
Shalt thou see Him no eye hath kenned, that thou behold thy King.’
“Now, how can your hearts be made pure so that we may see God? I have learned the secret; I will tell it you.”
Then I told the Story of stories; the story of redeeming love. Gradually and imperceptibly I had raised my voice until, as I spoke in the clear resonant Telegu, all down those three streets the multitudes could hear. And as I told them of His rejection by those He had come to save, and told them that it was for them, too, far away here in India, that He had suffered this agony on the cross, I saw tears coursing and dropping upon the pavements that they had torn up to stone us with. Far earlier in the story I had seen them stealthily dropping their armfuls of stones into the gutter, and press back to listen.
How they listened as I went on to tell them further of the love of God in Christ!
“Now,” said I, folding my arms and standing before them, “I have finished my story. You may stone me now. I will make no resistance.”
“No, no,” said they, “We don’t want to stone you now. We did not know whose messenger you were, nor what you had come to tell us. Do those books tell more about this wonderful Redeemer?”
“Yes,” said I, “this is the history of His life on earth—His death and resurrection glory.”
With this their wallets were produced, and they purchased all we had of the Gospel of Luke. They purchased all the Gospels and tracts we had with us, and appointed a deputation of their best men to escort us to our camp.
Verily, the story of the Cross has not lost its power. Preach it, brother, anywhere, everywhere!
Preach it in regions beyond and in your own homes, with a tongue of fire and a heart burning with the mighty, melting love of God!
—From a Missionary’s Diary.