Tag Archives: Missions

Amy Says It Better

21 Sep

The tom-toms thumped straight on through the night, and the darkness shuddered round me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I lay awake and looked and I saw as it seemed, this:

That I stood on a grassy sword and at my feet a precipice broke sheer down into infinite space. I looked but saw no bottom–only cloud shapes, black and furiously coiled; and great shadowed, shrouded hollows and unfathomable depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth.

Then I saw forms of people moving single file along the grass. They were making for the edge. There was woman with a baby in her arms and another little child holding onto her dress; she was on the very verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step; it trod air. She was over and the children over with her. Oh, the cry as they went over.

Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters–all were blind, stone blind. All made straight for the precipice edge. There were shrieks, as they suddenly knew themselves falling and a tossing up of helpless arms catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over quietly and fell without a sound.

Then I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one stopped them at the edge. I could not. I was glued to the ground. And I could not call; though I strained and tried only a whisper would come. Then I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals, but the intervals were far too great. There were great wide unguarded gaps between and over these gaps the people fell in their blindness quite unwarned. And the green grass seemed blood red to me and the gulf yawned like the mouth of hell.

Then I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under some trees with their backs turned towards the gulf. They were making daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached them, it disturbed them and they thought it a rather vulgar noise. And if one of their numbers started up and wanted to go do something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. “Why should you get so excited about it? You must wait for a definite call to go. You haven’t finished your daisy chains yet. It would be really selfish,” they said, “to leave us to finish the work alone.”

There was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire was to get more sentries out. But they found that very few wanted to go, and sometimes there were no sentries set for miles and miles of the edge. Once a girl stood alone in her place waving the people back; but her mother and other relations called, reminded her that her furlough was due. She must not break the rules. And being tired and needing a change, she had to go and rest for a while. But no one was sent to guard her gap, and over and over the people fell like a waterfall of souls.

Once a child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of the gulf. It clung convulsively and it called, but nobody seemed to hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way and with a cry the child went over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off bunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back at her gap thought she heard the little one cry. She sprang up and wanted to go, at which they reproved her reminding her that no one is necessary anywhere. The gap would be well taken care of they knew, and then they sang a hymn.

Then through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a million broken hearts rung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great darkness was upon me for I knew what it was–the cry of the blood. Then thundered a voice, the voice of the Lord, and He said, “What has thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto Me from the ground.”

The tom-toms still beat heavily. The darkness still shuddered and shivered about me. I heard the yells of the devil dancers and the weird, wild shriek of the devil-possessed just outside the gate. What does it matter after all? It has gone on for years. It will go on for years. I make such a fuss about it. God forgive us. God arouse us. Shame us out of our callousness, shame out of our sin.

The Cry of the Blood
(excerpt from Things As They Are by Amy Carmichael that never ceases to convict)


Their Words and Mine

24 Jul

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” 
[ John the Baptist ]

“Do not think me mad. It is not to make money that I believe a Christian should live. The noblest thing a man can do is just humbly to receive, and then go amongst others and give.”
[ David Livingstone ]

“The fact is, it is not the will of God for all of us to go to the wilds of Siberia; it is not the will of God for each and every one of us to become a missionary in a foreign land. However, it is the will of God for each and every one of us to participate in the Great Commission in a way that demonstrates a genuine disinterest in self and corresponding sacrifice. Missions is simple – either you go down [into the well] with the rope or you hold on to the rope. We are called to one or the other.”
[ Paul Washer ]

“If we’re not changing our communities back home, then what in the world are we doing in Cambodia?”
[ Judah Ben-Hur, New Zealand YWAM team member ]

“Discipleship is not fun and games. It’s not a walk in the park on a sunny day. It’s battleground and bayonets, stooping to serve and stooping lower to serve some more, patience and perseverance and precious lives, wanting a heart change more than an outfit change, love without conditions, trusting God do to the work we can’t… ‘If we don’t trust God,’ Srey Leak said during a prayer time with Claude and I last week, ‘we will break. If we trust Him, we can stand.’ Her broken English saying it better than I could. Sometimes I forget truth is so simple, that discipleship is hard because it means walking closely with Jesus and not with feelings, that life is not made up of fancy words and profound philosophies. It’s childlike faith that’s a requirement for entering the Kingdom. It’s taking God at His Word, believing what He said, needing Him and saying so, and walking like that through circumstances that scream the impossibility of victory… and finding it.”
[ Journal Entry, July 11 ]

I Must Care for their Souls…

15 Jun

2 Billion Unreached.”

40 Percent of the world have never heard the name of Jesus…Let us turn to the passage of the great Commission…

Unmoved. Uncaring. It was I. Sitting thru the talk on missions with a blank slate stare. Who cares about numbers. Who cares about percentages, graphs and equations of the world’s lost. Not I.

Perhaps that is the most honest and heathen thing I have ever said.

But as I sat and listened I felt like weeping. I wanted to jump up and knock the speaker over (Oh, for a life that is not held back by the expectations of man) and give the rest of the talk on this subject near to my heart.  No one cares what a speaker has to say if everyone can tell that the speaker has no care for it either. I wanted to scream to the whole student body with gut-wretching sobs, personal stories of how God has advanced the Kingdom through Honeybrook, through Asia, through me. I wanted to weep in front of them, yell in front of them, pound the pulpit for the sake of the Gospel in front of them! I wanted them to know that missions isn’t just about the two billion unreached. I don’t care about numbers. They don’t care about numbers. Who cares for numbers. Perhaps We should. Perhaps I should.

I wanted them to know missions is about dear thirteen year old Rebecca from Honeybrook, who asks questions like a 25 year old, but who cries to me of her overwhelming pain as her family falls apart to the cruel slavery of drugs and alcohol.

That missions is about my faithful friend and fellow co-worker at McDonalds, who has a deep compassion for people, but has a heart that is torn to shreds through her parents separation, her brother’s unfair imprisonment and her shambles of a life.

That missions is about Amy, who screams her hate for us on an evening of choir, but only because everything and everyone in her life has let her down already, and she’s scared to believe we won’t do the same.

That missions is about sitting of the street sidewalk in Phnom Penh, and being surrounded by twenty dirty precious children who hang onto every word you say.

That missions if about dear old wrinkled Charlotte Hopkins from New Holland, and sitting at her table for two hours to cry with her, laugh with her, and be her only friend, Who cares that we are Separated in age by sixty years.

That missions if about the passion of Jesus Christ. The passion For Jesus Christ. And As I sit and listen. I realize. That I will never have passion, or care for the two-billion unreached, until I have compassion for the lonely neighbor lady, or the torn apart child’s heart sitting in the church bench beside me, or the plastic smile of the God-hater at work, or the dark-skinned peddlers in Phnom Penh, or the lady walking with a limp through the mall, or the precious faces of the Honeybrook children who are far too unaware of the war waging over their souls.

Jesus My Christ! Drive me to your precious heart. I am resolved to become more akin to your heart that before! Intimately may I love you, and Deeply may I walk beside You.

I must care about the souls of the billions because I care about You. I endeavor to care for the one. I endeavor to care for the billions. God be my witness.


From A Journal Entry