Unless You Become…

 

Unless You Become…

 John Andersen is a surgeon. A capable fellow, still young for his profession. He goes quietly about his work and is an agreeable man.

This is his story.

He was brought up in a Christian home. His father and mother were simple people, socially as well as financially, but through many sacrifices—and with the help of a scholarship—they managed to pay for his education. His years at secondary school and the first years at university presented no difficulties. Thanks to his keen intellect, he was an excellent catechism student, and in his third year at university, when he was twenty, he made public profession of his faith. But after a while he began to absent himself from church, and within a few years he had become a thoroughly respectable prodigal son. After his marriage he moved to another town, and I lost track of him.

To my surprise, however, I saw him again in church about six months ago. I made enquiries and learned that he had been appointed surgeon at the nearby hospital.

That one visit to church was not his last. From time to time I noticed him among the congregation on Sundays. Then one day I happened to meet him in the street, and I told him how glad I was that he had found his way back to church.

He did not say much about it, only, "Yes, I have changed. I'm glad of it myself."

That, then, is his story.

But there is another story, and I did not hear it until one evening when he came to see me.

We spoke about his work at the hospital, and I enjoyed the precision with which he told his stories, together with the touch of humour that made his seriousness so engaging.

The evening wore on into the night, and at length he became confidential. "The most remarkable case I ever encountered," he said, "was a child. Though that's not really the right way to put it—a remarkable case. It was an ordinary appendicitis."

He fell silent for a moment and gazed thoughtfully ahead.

"I've been meaning to tell you about it, sooner or later."

Then I heard the story of little Wim.

Everything had been made ready in the operating theatre. The doctors, dressed in white, and the nurses stood alert at their posts, all with sterile gauze masks over their mouths. The lamp overhead cast its fierce, pitiless light.

No wonder little Wim was rather frightened when they wheeled him in. He looked around with anxious eyes at all the light and all those white-clad figures. After all, he was only seven years old and completely alone. He had already understood that Father and Mother would not be allowed to come with him.

Still, he was a courageous little fellow, and he asked Andersen, "What are you going to do to me?"

"We're just going to take that pain out of your tummy," Andersen replied kindly.

"But I don't have any pain now."

"No, but if we don't do anything about it, the pain will come back tomorrow, and then you'll become very ill."

This seemed to give him pause. His thin little face grew serious, and his eyes looked intently at the tall man standing over him.

"How are you going to take the pain away, Doctor?"

"You're simply going to go to sleep, Wim. And when you wake up, everything will be over, and you'll soon be well again."

Wim was not entirely reassured.

"But I'm not sleepy at all."

"You will be. I'm going to make you sleep. You won't feel a thing."

Meanwhile an unusual stillness had settled over the operating theatre. Everything was ready, and everyone stood waiting.

"Am I really going to sleep, Doctor?"

"Yes, Wim. Really."

"But then I have to pray first," said Wim.

Before anyone realised what he was about to do, he had slipped off the trolley. He knelt on the floor and folded his little hands on the edge of it.

The theatre fell completely silent.

Andersen, the two assistants, the nurses—not one of them moved.

All eyes were fixed on that small figure in the middle of the room.

Then a child's voice rang out, clear and pure: 

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Pray thee Lord my soul to keep.
Father, I do trust in thee
Wilt thou now abide with me.

Make me free from guilt and spot.
     And my sins remember not
     Should I die before I wake, 
     Pray thee Lord my soul to take.
                                                    Amen

 That was Andersen's story.

"You may think it strange," he said, "or sentimental. But for me it was a turning point. I could not get it out of my mind, because I knew that child was right—and I was wrong.

"There came an evening when I too knelt beside my bed. I was deeply troubled and confused, and there was much in my life that was not as it should have been. But that is another story. That evening I knelt before God and asked exactly the same thing:

 Make me free from guilt and spot.
     And my sins remember not.

Suddenly Andersen rose to his feet, like a man afraid he had allowed someone to look too deeply into his soul. He gave me a slightly guarded glance as he buttoned his jacket.

But at the door he turned and said, "There's a verse somewhere about becoming like a little child, isn't there?"

 (Translation of "Zo Gij Niet Wordt..." De Weleerwaarde Heer, p. 59-62, M. E. Voila, Kok: Kampen)

Be Not Overly Wicked

Chapter 3

Be Not Overly Wicked

Ecclesiastes 7:17 

As for Sister Wanter's appearance, whatever was striking about her was not beautiful, and whatever was beautiful was not striking. Her eyes sat slightly out of level, and her mouth pulled a little to one side, as though two opposing forces had once fought a brief skirmish across her face. Her fair hair possessed neither curl nor wave, and its colour was a dull, whitish yellow, untouched by even the faintest trace of red.

Yet anyone who came to know her better made two discoveries. The first was that, at times—even at forty, and after all she had endured—she could look inexplicably young. Not often, to be sure. But now and then—was it a trick of the light, or did the light come from within?—she seemed almost a young girl again.

The second discovery lay in her eyes. In their depths dwelt a great kindness and a gentle humility, as though sorrow itself had refined rather than hardened her. How else could she have borne her cross?

But now it seemed she wished to cast that cross aside, for her voice sounded soft yet resolute when she said to me: “Now I want to be rid of him, Pastor.”

Wanter was a brute—a drunkard, a womaniser—and everyone wondered how his wife had endured him for so many years. He was violent in both word and deed. As a church, we had little direct dealings with him; he was not a member. Our contact was with his wife and children. Whenever Wanter was out of work or short of money, he sold whatever he could lay his hands on: the radio, the clock, even his wife's coat.

More than once, after one of his violent outbursts had ended in blows, I spoke with her about the possibility of at least a separation from bed and board. I urged her to think of the welfare of her body as well as her soul, and of the children, whose young minds were in danger of being poisoned by their father's example. But she would never consent. She would only shake her head and say, "I cannot do that, Pastor."

Whenever a little one was born, I visited her. Those, I think, were her best days. She lay quietly in bed, as though she had at last earned the right to be tired, and to let others care for her. It was also the only time I ever saw her smile. When I praised the child, or when she held it in her arms, that peculiar smile would appear—almost making her beautiful, and younger than she had ever seemed.

Beside the bed stood the cradle—her pride. And it was a cradle worth looking at: so neatly kept, with spotless curtains that she replaced each time a new birth drew near. Soon enough the baby would be moved to a little cot, and the cradle carried up to the attic, where it would stand beneath an old curtain until the next time. But as long as she lay in bed, the cradle remained beside her. With careful fingers she would adjust the luminescent tulle; or she would lift herself on one elbow to see whether the veil covered the baby’s tiny head properly. Then she would sink back into the pillow, contented and at peace.

But now she sat across from me, and there was something final in her words: “I want to be rid of him, Pastor.”

I could not draw much more from her in the conversation that followed. I asked what had happened, but her answers remained vague: “It cannot go on… I cannot keep it up any longer.”

And when I suggested that she had surely made her decision also for the sake of the children, she only nodded and said, “Yes, yes—for the children too.”

I suspected she was expecting another baby. She did not speak of it, and I did not raise the subject.

The next day her husband came to see me. He had no idea why his wife had suddenly wanted to leave him. He drank a glass of beer now and then, but otherwise was conscious of no wrongdoing, and he asked me to try to persuade her to change her mind. I could see he was confused. He had never expected that she would finally leave him. In him, disbelief and fear wrestled in a manner that was almost painful to witness. His feigned indifference, his selfishness, his hollow promises of improvement—everything about him bore the mark of what was base and ugly.

And indeed, that evening he sent his eldest daughter with the message that Mother wanted to see me. She was a sweet child of thirteen. I kept her talking for a moment.

She already knew: Mother was leaving Father.

Good thing too.

“And now,” I said, “you will surely be extra kind to your mother.”

She nodded vigorously.

“I’m going to help Mother with everything, and if she can pay for it, I may even take sewing lessons.” She leaned closer, confidentially: “It’s Father’s own fault. He shouldn’t have sold the cradle.”

A light went on in me.

“Is Mother so angry about that?”

“No, she only cried terribly, and then she said: now I can’t go on.”

Again I saw before me that beautiful cradle beside the mother’s bed, her brief happiness, her rare smile.

The cradle was sold, for beer money. Yes—but it had been far more than a cradle. It had been the symbol of the only happiness she still knew. In losing it, she lost her last refuge. Now there was nowhere left for her to retreat with the meagre remnants of her love and longing. For a brief time after each birth she had been untouchable, as though she had been enclosed in a garden whose gate was closed to all others.

Now even that sanctuary had been violated, and nothing remained to her but flight.

There is a limit to all things, even to the capacity to suffer.

I could picture her—after the discovery in the attic—sitting at the table with red, tear‑swollen eyes staring into emptiness, her fists pressed against her cheeks, her wispy hair falling over her forehead.

“I can’t go on.”

And so it was. She could not go on.

Translation of “Wees Niet al te Goddeloos—Prediker 7:17” by M. E. Voila, p. 13ff in De Weleerwaarde Heer.” (Kok: Kampen, 1961).

Two additional stanzas for Hy. 25 in the Book of Praise.

See, my true Servant Shall in Wisdom rise, – George vP by George vP

Song on Isaiah 42:10-13

Sing unto the LORD a new song SATB – George vP by George vP

Pray for the missionaries

 

I have recently had contact with a few of our missionaries who spoke about difficulties they are facing. We need to know that when missionaries experience trials and difficulties, there is a spiritual struggle behind it. And we need to pray for them, that they might stand firm in the struggle. The same holds true for our sisters on the field, and for all workers.

Missionaries go out with joy, enthusiasm, conviction, and a deep sense of calling. They leave behind familiar places, beloved communities, and cherished families, to bring the gospel to those who have not yet heard it. But the path of mission work is rarely smooth. Many face ongoing difficulties—discouragement, conflict, loneliness, and at times even hostility from the very people they long to serve. Scripture teaches us that these struggles are part of a deeper, unseen conflict.

Missionaries need to navigate cultural differences and organizational challenges; but more than that, they are stepping directly into the front lines of a spiritual battle.

The New Testament is unambiguous: the devil hates the gospel. He hates the freedom it brings. He hates the light it shines. And he hates to see people escaping his clutches through the ministry of Christ’s servants.

When missionaries proclaim Christ, they are not just teaching ideas. They are announcing liberty to captives. They are tearing down strongholds. They are shining light into darkness. It should not surprise us, then, that the evil one pushes back.

Paul reminds us that we do not wrestle against flesh and blood but against the spiritual forces of evil (Ephesians 6:12).  Missionaries feel this reality acutely. The devil cannot snatch back those whom Christ has claimed, but he can—and does—attempt to discourage, distract, and divide those who carry the message of salvation.

One of the most painful trials missionaries face is not external persecution but internal strife. Disagreements within a congregation, misunderstandings among supporters, or tensions with fellow workers can cut deeply. Even more wounding is when gossip or slander begins to circulate—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. That causes weariness beyond telling.

These things are not trivial. They are not merely “personality clashes” or “communication issues” or “cultural misunderstandings.” They are spiritual attacks. The devil delights in sowing suspicion, resentment, and division among God’s people. If he cannot stop the gospel from being preached, he will try to weaken the preacher and his wife. If he cannot silence the missionaries, he will try to isolate them.

Gossip and slander are among Satan’s oldest tools. Our Lord called him “the liar and the father of lies” (John 8:44). Gossip and slander drain courage, cloud judgment, and break trust. And they can leave faithful servants feeling abandoned, misunderstood, depleted, and betrayed.

Missionaries often carry burdens that few see. They may feel pressure to appear strong, composed, and unwavering. When they visit the supporting churches, they smile and endeavour to appear positive. Yet behind the scenes they may be wrestling with discouragement, fatigue, or spiritual oppression. They may be near to burn out. The apostle Paul himself spoke of being “utterly burdened beyond his strength” and “that he despaired of life itself” (2 Corinthians 1:8). Missionaries are not immune to such experiences.

Their struggle is not a sign of failure. It is a sign that they are engaged in work that matters.

Where the gospel advances, the enemy resists. Where light shines, darkness pushes back. Where Christ builds, Satan attempts to tear down. Missionaries stand in this tension every day. As is often attributed to Martin Luther, “Where Christ builds a church, the devil builds a chapel.” It may not be a verbatim quotation, but the saying captures the fact that the devil always opposes the advance of the gospel.

And yet we know that Satan has been defeated and that Christ has won. The devil may rage, but he is beaten. His fury is real, but his power is limited. Christ has already triumphed, and he equips his servants with everything they need to stand firm.

Missionaries do not labour alone. The risen Lord goes with them, the Holy Spirit strengthens them, the prayers of the church uphold them, and the Father watches over them with unfailing and loving care.

When disagreements arise, Christ can bring reconciliation. When gossip spreads, Christ can vindicate. When discouragement weighs heavily, Christ can lift up the weary. When the devil attacks, Christ shields his servants with his own victory.

If missionaries face spiritual battles, then the church must support them with spiritual weapons. They need more than financial support—though that is important. They need prayer, encouragement, and steadfast solidarity.

Contact your church’s missionary with an encouraging word. We have many means at our disposal to do so, from an old falchioned letter in the mail, to a quick text.

We are all engaged in spiritual warfare, whether on the mission field or on the home front. Satan attacks us here in North America as he attacks missionaries and the converted in Mexico, Brazil, PNG, and other fields. He may use different methods in Africa than he does in Canada, but attack he does. Some of our missionaries are labouring in western culture, and so they feel “western” attacks as well.

Pray for the missionaries;

Pray for their protection.

Pray for unity in their congregations.

Pray for courage when they are slandered.

Pray for joy when the work is slow and difficult.

Pray for perseverance when the enemy presses hard.

Sometimes the devi’s attacks are overt; sometimes they are subtle. We all need to be on guard against the devil, who attacks the church like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

Brothers and sisters, missionaries are not heroes in their own strength. They are servants upheld by grace. And the Lord who called them is faithful. He will not abandon them in the struggle. He will complete the work he began—both in them and through them.