WAYSIDE PREACHING by Adoniram Judson

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 7, 1881

WAYSIDE PREACHING.

By Adoniram Judson

PART SECOND.

The fourth day came and still the missionary continued his wearisome labor in the zayat. The old water-bearer had become a sincere inquirer,—a timid, but true believer. The self-confident philosopher had almost ceased to cavil. Fresh inquirers had appeared, and the missionary’s heart was strengthened. Still his thoughts turned to the stern sah-ya and his little boy, as he murmured, repeatedly, “The one shall be taken, and the other left.” While these desponding words were upon his lips, the very child who was in his thoughts sprang up the steps of the zayat, followed by his grave, dignified father. Above the showy folds of his new Madras turban, he carried a red lackered tray upon which was a cluster of golden plantains. Placing the gift at the missionary’s feet, he drew back with a pleased smile of boyish shyness; while the man, bowing courteously, took his seat upon the mat.

“You are the foreign priest,” he remarked civilly, and more by way of introduction than inquiry.

“I am a missionary.”

The stranger smiled, for he had purposely avoided the offensive epithet, and was amused and conciliated by the missionary’s frank use of it. “And so you make people believe in Jesus Christ?”

“I try to.”

The visitor laughed outright, then, as if a little ashamed of his rudeness, he composed his features and with his usual courtesy, resumed, “My little son has heard of you, sir; and he is very anxious to learn something about Jesus Christ. It is a pretty story you tell of that man—prettier, I think, than any of our fables.” The missionary threw a quick, scrutinizing glance on the face of his visitor. He saw that the man was ill at ease, that his carelessness was entirely assumed, and that underneath all there was a deep, wearing anxiety. “Ah, you think so? To what particular story do you allude?”

“Why, that of the strange sort of being you call Jesus Christ—a great prince, or something of the sort—dying for us poor fellows, and so—Ha, ha! The absurdity of the thing makes me laugh; though there is something in it beautiful, too.”

“I perceive you are an unbeliever,” said the missionary.

“No; oh, no; I am a true and faithful worshiper of Lord Gaudama; but of course neither you nor I subscribe to all the fables of our respective religions. There is quite enough that is honest and reasonable in our Buddhistic system to satisfy me; but my little son”—here the father seemed embarrassed, and laughed again, as though to cover his confusion—“is bent on philosophical investigation—eh, Moung Moung?”

“But are you not afraid that my teachings will do the child harm?”

The visitor looked up with a broad smile of admiration, as though he would have said, “you’re a very honest fellow after all.”

“What if I should tell you that I do believe every thing I preach as firmly as I believe that you sit on the mat before me, and that it is the one desire of my life to make everybody else believe it—you and your child among the rest.”

The sah-ya tried to smile, tried to look unconcerned; but his easy nonchalance of manner seemed utterly to forsake him when he most needed it; and finally, abandoning the attempt to renew his former tone of banter, he quietly answered, “I have heard of a writing you possess, which by your leave I will take home and read to Moung Moung.”

The missionary selected a little tract from the parcel on the table beside him, and gave it to his visitor. “Sah-ya,” said he, solemnly, “I hereby put into your hands the key to eternal life and happiness. This active, intelligent soul of yours, with its exquisite perception of moral beauty and loveliness cannot be destined to inhabit a dog, a monkey, or a worm, in another life. God made it for higher purposes; and I pray that I may yet meet you, all beautiful, and pure, and glorious, in a world beyond the reach of pain or death, and, above all, beyond the reach of sin.”

At these words the boy, who had to this time sat upon his mat like a statue, his eyes fixed upon the speaker, sprang forward—

“Papa, papa, hear him. Let us both love the Lord Jesus Christ. My mother loved him; and in the golden country of the blessed she waits for us.”

“I must go,” said the sah-ya hoarsely, attempting to rise.

“Let us pray,” said the missionary kneeling down.

The child laid his hands together, placing them against his forehead, bowed his head to the mat, and the father remained seated. Gradually, as the fervent prayer proceeded, his head drooped a little; and it was not long before he placed his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. As soon as the prayer was ended, he rose, bowed in silence, and with his child walked away.

Day after day went by, the sah-ya, as he passed the zayat, always saluting its occupant respectfully, but evincing no disposition to cultivate his acquaintance farther. He was accompanied by the child less frequently than formerly, who sometimes paused for a moment to ask for a book, or exchange a word of greeting. Meanwhile that terrible scourge of eastern nations, the cholera, had made its appearance; and came sweeping through the town with its usual devastating power. Fires were kindled before every house, and kept burning night and day; while immense processions continually thronged the streets, with gongs, drums, and tom-toms, to frighten away the evil spirits, and so arrest the progress of the disease. The zayat was closed for lack of visitors; and the missionary and his assistants busied themselves in attending on the sick and dying. One night he was aroused from his slumbers by the calls of faithful Ro Shuay-bay.

“Teacher, teacher, you are wanted.”

“Where?”

The man lowered his voice almost to a whisper and sending the volume of sound through the crevice in the boards said, “At the sah-ya’s.”

Here the missionary found the veranda thronged with relatives and dependants, and from an inner room came a wild wailing sound, which told that death was already there. No one seemed to observe his entrance; and he followed the sound of woe until he stood by the corpse of a little child.

“He has gone up to the Golden City, to bloom forever amid the royal lilies of paradise,” murmured a voice close to his ear.

The missionary turned abruptly, and saw a middle-aged woman, holding a palm-leaf fan to her mouth.

“He worshiped the true God,” she continued, suffering the individuality of her voice to glide away in the wail of the mourners, and occasionally slurring a word which she dared not pronounce distinctly—“he worshiped the true God, and trusted in the Lord our Redeemer—the Lord Jesus Christ; he trusted in him; he called and he was answered; he was weary—weary and in pain; and the Lord who loved him, he took him home.”

“Was he conscious?”

“Conscious, and full of joy.”

“What did he talk of?”

“Only of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose face he seemed to see.”

“And his father?”

“His father! Oh, my master, my noble master! he is going too. Come and see him.”

“Who sent for me?”

“Your handmaid, sir.”

“How dared you?”

There was a look such as might have been worn by the martyrs of old upon the woman’s face, as she expressively answered, “God was here.”

In the next apartment lay the noble figure of the sah-ya stretched upon a couch, in the last stage of the fearful disease.

“It grieves me to meet you thus, my friend,” remarked the visitor.

The sah-ya made a gesture of impatience. His fast stiffening lips stirred, but could convey no sound; there was a feeble movement as though he would have pointed at something; but his half-raised finger wavered and sank back again, and a look of dissatisfaction, amounting to anxiety, passed over his countenance. Finally, renewing the effort, he succeeded in laying his hands together, and with difficulty, lifting them to his forehead, and then quietly and calmly closed his eyes.

“Do you trust in Lord Gaudama at a moment like this?” inquired the missionary, uncertain for whom the act of worship was intended.

There was a quick tremor in the shut lids, and the poor sah-ya unclosed his eyes with an expression of mingled pain and disappointment, while the death-heavy hands slid from their position back upon the pillow.

“Lord Jesus, receive his spirit,” exclaimed the missionary solemnly. A bright, joyous smile flitted across the face of the dying man, even seeming to shed light upon the glazed eyes; a sigh-like breath fluttered his bosom for a moment, the finger which he had before striven to lift, pointed distinctly upward, but now fell heavily across his breast, and he was no more.

“You had better go now,” whispered the woman; “you can do no further good, and may receive harm.”

“And who are you that you have braved the danger to yourself, of bringing me here?”

They drew near the body of the child, which had been left for a moment alone.

“See!” said the woman lifting the cloth, reverently. A copy of the Gospel of Matthew lay on his bosom.

“Who placed it there?”

“He did, with his own dear little hand,” and the woman’s voice gave expression to one swell of agony, and then died away in a low wail, like that which proceeded from the adjoining room. Presently she resumed, “I was his mother’s nurse. She got this book of you, sir. We thought my master burned it, but he kept it and may be studied with it. Do you think he became a true believer?”

“To whom did he pray at the last moment?”

“To the Lord Jesus Christ—I am sure of that. Do you think the Lord would receive him, sir?”

“Did you ever read about the thief who was crucified with the Saviour?”

“Oh, yes; I read it to Moung Moung this very day. He was holding his mother’s book when the disease smote him, and he kept it in his hand until just before he died.”

“The Lord Jesus Christ is just as merciful now as he was then. Where did you become acquainted with this religion?”

“My mistress taught me, sir, and made me promise to teach her baby when he was old enough, and to go to you for more instruction. But I was alone and afraid. I sometimes got as far as the big banian tree on the corner, and crawled away again trembling so with terror that I could scarcely stand upon my feet. At last I found out Ro Shuay-bay, and he promised to keep my secret, and gave me books, and explained their meaning, and taught me how to pray, and I have been getting courage ever since. I should not much mind now, if they did find me out and kill me.”

When the missionary again resumed his labors at the zayat his hearers were widely scattered in the jungles, in far off towns, and in that other place, whence no traveler returns. His last hopeful inquirer, the priest, and the poor old water-bearer, were all dead; and the philosopher fled away they knew not where; but the missionary’s heart swelled with joy as he thought that a few at least had been gathered into the fold of Christ, before they were swept away by the fell destroyer.—Abridged from Memoirs of Adoniram Judson.