What would you do?

[Sister Alvear]

Let me give some thoughts some may have read these stories before but may I stir up your minds to remember...

[Sister Alvear]

The Urgency Of The Hour

The rain was coming down in torrents. Sister Sonia and I were in search of a family in an out of the way village in the city of Francisco Morato. Right out of the main part of the city, the road became a dirty, hilly, slippery path. I don't think it could b rightfully called a road. Up and down we went, stopping and asking every once in a while, if we were headed in the right direction. Pouring rain and frightening winds did not stop us; after all it was precious souls we were searching for.
Finally, we arrived at our destination. The lady of the house welcomed us in. She was all smiles. After some small talk, she looked at me and said: "I didn't sleep at all last night. You see, my husband is a bandit, and I am raising my children in constant danger. Last night, I looked at all the saints and gods on my walls, and I prayed this prayer: Oh, God, if there is a God that hears prayers, please send someone tomorrow to tell me about you, because these gods I have, have never answered prayer." There we sat. Her prayers had been answered. I was so glad I had felt a holy haste to go to her village.
The preaching of the Gospel around the world is a matter of urgency. There is a time limit for reaching men, women, boys, and girls, who will never hear unless we are willing to reach out to them.
There are multitudes of souls who have never heard the glorious Truth, and many of them are wondering why no one has come sooner, to tell them about Jesus. I read the following quote in a book:
There comes that inevitable and embarrassing moment, that moment of shame and pain when native Christians begin to question the missionary after the manner of an old Mohammedan woman in Bengal: "How long is it since Jesus died for sinful people? Look at me; I am old; I have prayed, given alms, gone to the holy shrines, become dust from fasting, and all of this is useless. Where have you been all this time?"
The same cry was echoed from the icy shores of the farthest Northwest Territory. An old Eskimo said to the Bishop of Selkirk, "You have been many moons in this land. Did you know this good news then? Since you were a boy? And your father knew? Then why did you not come sooner?"
Again in the heights of the Andes a Peruvian asked, "How is it that during all the years of my life, I have never heard that Jesus Christ spoke those precious words?" It was repeated in the white streets of Casablanca, North America: "Why have you not run everywhere with this book?" Said a man to a Bible seller. "Why do so many of my people not know what Jesus proclaims? Why have you hoarded it to yourselves? Shame on you!'
A missionary in Egypt was telling a woman the story of the love of Jesus, and at the close she said, "It is a wonderful story. So the women in your country believe it?" "Yes!" Said the missionary. After a few moments of reflection the women replied, "I don't think they can believe it, or they would not have been so long in coming to tell us."
A noble pioneer, L.L. Legters was once preaching the Gospel to a group of Latin-American Indians form one of the many, totally, unevangelized tribes. As he told of how the Son of God dies on a cross of His own free will, that they, and all others might escape eternal punishment, one man who had listened with intense interest interrupted him: "Senor, when did this One die for us, of whom we have never heard? Was it a long time ago?" He stepped back in blank amazement when the answer came, "It was two thousand years ago."
On another occasion as Mr. Legters was talking to an old Indian chief in South America, the latter said, "White man, how long since you knew this Jesus way?" "Chief, it has been a long time." "How long since your father knew this way?" Mr. Legters could only reply, "Oh, it was long ago." Finally the old chief folded his blanket about him, doubtingly concluded, "White man you wait too long, you wait too long." The old Indian's reasoning was good, "How do you expect us to believe this news, so good beyond all reckoning, when you have waited too long?"
"So you have come at last," said a Taoist Priest, as the missionary entered the Chinese Temple. The latter had seen the priest listening intently in the open air service. The man had long been hungry to know the truth. In some kind of vision, he had been impressed that "some day messengers would come from far away lands." Was it necessary for him to have waited for eighteen long years?
Finally, in The Growth of a Soul (Published by the China Inland Mission) occurs this reproaching witness against the Church: In talking with Hudson Taylor, Mr. Nyi, a Chinese Christian, unexpectedly raised a question, the pain of which was not easily forgotten. "How long have you had the Glad Tings in England?" He asked all unsuspectingly. The young missionary was ashamed to tell him, and vaguely replied that it was several hundred years. "What?" Exclaimed Mr. Nyi in astonishment, "Several hundred years!" Is it possible that you have known about Jesus son long, and only now have come to tell us? My father sought the truth for more than twenty years," he continued sadly, "and died without finding it. Oh, why did you not come sooner?"
Experiences like this are the heartaches for almost all missionaries. Many times I have felt pain as heathen souls have asked why we have waited so long to tell them.

[Sister Alvear]

Her lips moved in silent prayer each time she lighted a candle. Her hands trembled as she carried out the rituals of paganism. The look on her face was that of pain and despair. A tear trickled down her cheek. As I stood looking, the shadowy objects became darker and darker as there was no glow of the presence of the presence of the Lord. There was the smell of melting wax and the flicker of candles against the gray walls of a Roman sanctuary. There were no joyful praises of answered prayer. No gestures of rejoicing. No assuring smile that God's will would be done.
After all, what would a plaster goddess know about human suffering? Eyes that cannot see, ears that cannot hear, feet that cannot walk, a tongue that cannot talk and hands that cannot heal or save. Blacker and blacker it grew, ominous in grip. Yet, just outside, over the Roman sanctuary, the heavens quivered and glowed with all shades of lovely light. Leaping from my heart were the words of David long ago? “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth His handiwork.”
Oh! Catholicism and Spiritualism, your temples are splendor. Your schools and universities are among the best. Your hospitals are many. You are deeply rooted in everyday life, but how empty you are! Your black robed priests are only blind leaders of the blind.
What do you have to offer to the thirsty soul? A rosary? A candle? Blessed water? An image of an idol god or saint? How empty you are?
Light begets light, and through the power in Jesus’ name, darkness is expelled and the chains of bondage to demons are broken. The dark world of spirits remains obscure to most people in our modern society. Our scientific educational system normally rejects any possibility that the spirit beings exist capable of interfering in the lives of humans. We North Americans are taught to treat occults as children’s superstition, and therefore we are quite unprepared to help people who are under demonic influence.
I jotted down a story I read many years ago, that I would like to relate to you. I have long forgotten he name of the missionary that wrote the story, so my apologies to the author, but it seems appropriate here.
The Indian had let his small, three year old son and his wife, and the other women and children of the village go up the Araguaida River one morning to collect turtle eggs. The women lingered so the husband decided to go and find the cause of the delay. Just as he was anchoring his canoe on the opposite side of the river, he saw a big Xavante Indian, enemy of his tribe, beat his little son’s head against a dead tree where the path came to the river.
His wife stood terrified with upraised arms nearby. Her face distorted with shock and anguish. His eyes transfixed by the bleeding mass of slaughtered human flesh, he went directly to his canoe and rowed furiously toward the other side where his wife and son were. The Xavante had killed more than twenty women and children in a few minutes, and had gone back into the forest.
The man found his wife hugging the still warm body of their little son. She handed the little one to his father as he came from the boat. Then, the husband closed the boys’ eyes, as he could not bear the anguish reflected in them. Later they started back down the river. They met the fathers, husbands and brothers who had come to claim their dead. Through the long, dark hours of the night they rowed down the river.
The ones in the village who had not gone were gathered in a group to await the return of their people. They soon detected the outline of the mother with her baby boy. She held him tightly in her arms as she stepped from the canoe.
She didn’t say a word. There were no more tears. She had shed them all over the body of her little son while coming down the river during the night. It was cold as always in the jungle by a river when the sun goes down. There she bent over the child, now held death, she wrapped him with her long black hair to keep him warm. And there stood the father looking like a bronze statue as the light of a new dawn burst over the river a radiant, sunshiny day.
The father dug a grave and it was there he buried not only his son, but also the heart of the father. There was no hope of them ever seeing the little son again, beyond the newly dug grave. So, back to the jungle they went, empty-handed, with bleeding hearts.
As I think of the story I heard long ago, of this family in their hour of tragedy, I am reminded of the debt I owe, as God’s child, as a mother who has counted on His presence and sustaining grace for every need and danger. I have had the high privilege of knowing Him. I am never without the assurance of His presence.


Not silver or gold hath obtained my redemption
Nor riches of earth could have saved my poor soul
The blood of the cross is my only foundation
The death of my Savior now maketh me whole

I am redeemed, but not with silver
I am bought, but not with gold
Bought with a price-the blood of Jesus
Precious price of love untold
(James Gray)

[Sister Alvear]

In the preface of a book that was written by K.S. Lee, a Chinese Christian are these words: "These pages are dedicated to the memory of my mother, who during her life time could neither read nor write one word, and she never traveled more than tem miles from her home. Born in a pagan environment, she died without the Christian faith. Whose sin was this?" "For how shall they believe n Him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach, except they be sent?" There are millions of mothers all over the world today, born in pagan homes, who will die without the saving knowledge of the true God, unless you and I do our part. Whose sin is this?
Every time you breathe, a poor lost, untold, heathen soul struggles for his last breath, and sinks into eternal darkness, alone without hope and without God. Every minute many, many souls go out into eternity. Billions have never heard the sound of church bells. Every time the pendulum of your clock swings, someone that is ignorant of Christ's redemption grasps in hopeless despair as the curtains of death enshroud another heathen soul, taking him into eternity without God. Since we make up a part of the half of the world that has heard the Gospel, we are debtors to the other half, who have never heard.

[Sister Alvear]

So, you see I believe with all my heart there is a plan BUT we HIS messengers are to slow...may God help us to see and feel the urgency of the hour.

[Sister Alvear]

Judgment Day

Today is judgment day for me
I never knew it would have to be
We stand more than a million souls
That has never heard of thee.

With trembling hands and weeping voices
We look to one upon a throne
Why is it we have never known?
And in our land the gospel seed never sown?

Oh church, how can we sit on sitting sands?
Gathering riches and wealth here below
While away off in heathen lands
A debt to them we so plainly owe.

How can we be so light hearted and gay
While billions still do not know the way
It's enough to make angels weep
Because in heathen creeds they sink so deep

So arise and listen to the voices from afar
Tell them we are coming, yes we are
All other things we count as dross
We will gladly bear the missionaries cross.
(Janice Alvear)