Which Is the Greater Sacrifice?
By GEO. F. ENOCH
Not long ago, we had occasion to write a letter to the homeland, acknowledging a gift sent by some of our loyal young people for the regions beyond. In writing that letter, one thought was uppermost, and that was the necessity of having sturdy, faithful believers in the homeland, “holding the ropes,” refusing to be turned aside by any of the side-tracks which are now running so close to the trunk line of the advent faith. The laborer in the message, toiling in a strange land, beneath a tropical sun, by the side of pestilential swamps and rivers, has frequently pressed upon him the question, “If I fall in the heat of the battle, are re-enforcements behind, ready to step forward and grasp the standard as it falls from my lifeless hands, and keep the banner from trailing in the dust?” He has noted those who have fallen in like circumstances, and the tardy way in which the gaps have been filled. He has noted the thousands of young people passing through the doors of our sanitariums and colleges, only to be apparently swallowed up in the great rushing world, and has wondered if they have forgotten the motto, “The Advent Message to the World in This Generation.” Does the fault lie with our institutions, our young people, or the homes of our people? Such thoughts seemed to have stirred this Young People’s Society, and one member with a tender heart said that as he saw what sacrifice others were making for this work, it seemed to him that he had never sacrificed very much for it. That came to us as an odd statement of the case, and we thought on this wise:— What Has the Toiler in the Mission Station Sacrificed?
As we thought it all carefully over, we were surprised to see how small was the list of real sacrifices. The only thing we could find was the loss of not being permitted to gather with father or mother, brother or sister, at the home circle. But that had but little weight, as, after all, whether at home or abroad, we can not stay beneath the home roof, but each one must pass out into the busy world to make his own way. Then the separation is only temporary, as there will be a glad reunion in the near future, for which the world can not look. What, then, does the missionary sacrifice? Is it gold or silver? Is it fame or honor? Is it the privilege of joining the mad rush in the battle for bread, in which the majority are wrecked, with blasted hopes and blighted lives, and the few who succeed find the prize swept from their unwilling grasp by the pitiless monster, death? All this is nothing. They gain, first of all, the blessed privilege of walking in the footsteps of their beloved Master, and enjoy the fellowship of his presence, which comes through wearing his yoke. The Lord makes friends for them wherever they turn, in the person of those whose hearts he opens; they are sharers in the joy that thrills heaven when the lost sheep returns to the fold; and when this short life is ended, they receive the crown of life, and enter the eternal home, where throughout eternity they will find joy inexpressible, in the midst of such splendor and beauty as the richest magnate of earth has never conceived. Do not name such a life a life of sacrifice. What Do Those Who Stay With the World Sacrifice?
They sacrifice the eternal world for a few short years in such a world as this; they sacrifice immortality for mortality; life for death; the joys of eternity for the pleasures of sin, which are but for a season; the wealth of earth made new, and the beautiful city of gold, for the gold and silver of this world, which are of no value when life is finally ebbing away; the undying friendship, love, and home of the purified throng, for the selfish friendship of this present evil world; the privilege of being honored by the King of the universe for the empty honors of earth! And What Have They Gained?
Nothing. Like the wise man, they can only say, “Vanity of vanities, . . . all is vanity.” To such a one the words of Jesus are, “Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.” His sun then sinks behind the clouds of despair, only to set in unending night. The missionaries at the front do not wish to hear anything about their sacrifices. Let us hear no idle talk, asking if our missions really pay. When the missionaries in other lands faint beneath the burden of the day, let none wisely shake their heads in condemnation. Let us allow these worn and weary toilers to enjoy the rest they have earned with heaven’s blessing upon them, and let us fill the gaps, pressing the battle to the very gates, with our faces set as flint Zionward. Then when the work is done, we shall all rejoice in the harvest home.