Dutch Johnny by Alta B. Harvey

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 7, 1915

Dutch Johnny

By Alta B. Harvey

ALTA B. HARVEY

For several years past a familiar figure upon the streets of our city is a vegetable vender who bears the figurative name of “Dutch Johnny.” He is known to almost every man, woman, and child in the city, and his bluff good nature and quaint way of calling his wares bring smiles to every face he meets.

One day last spring while passing by our house he was met by one of our brethren, and they stopped just outside of my window to talk, seemingly a continuance of some former conversation. Our brother tried hard to convince him of the Sabbath truth, but without avail, and as they parted to go their separate ways, I heard the vender say, “I am nothing but a dumb Dutchman, but my preacher, he knows all about it.”

My heart ached as I thought how many others have made just such a remark, maybe not in the quaint and broken language of poor Dutch Johnny, but still the same in meaning.

How often do we hear these words: “There is the Rev. Mr. So-and-so, who is one of the most intelligent of men, a

fine Bible student and an honest, upright, Christian man. If what you say is true, why, surely he would know it and say so.”

Then this thought came to my mind as I pondered these things: If we were passing by a great precipice and our only guide and helper was a rope held out to us by another, would we travel on, trusting blindly to the one who held the rope, or would we examine the rope ourselves and be assured that it was strong and safe to walk by, when a single misstep would mean death on the cruel rocks at the foot of the precipice?

We often read of the wonderful feats accomplished by the Alpine climbers, and also of the many narrow escapes of some of them,—how they were saved from a terrible death on the jagged rocks of some yawning chasm; how but for the soundness and strength of the rope which bound them, their lives would have been dashed out and their mutilated bodies left to decay in some cleft of the mountain.

Think you they made no examination of that rope before they started on their perilous journey? Yes, every inch of the rope was gone over; every strand was tested, and its strength assured ere they trusted their lives to its support.

My brother or sister, yours is a more perilous journey than any of the Alpine climbers. You are walking along a fearful abyss, the abyss of eternal death. Just beyond are the beautiful fields and green valleys of the eternal world.

Have you tested the rope, your religion? Are you sure it will carry you over every steep chasm, or will its strands loosen and fall apart and you be hurled down to eternal destruction? You may have every confidence in the minister whom you love and respect; but, my brother, I implore you to know of yourself what is truth.

Marion, Ind.