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The pagan world...
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)
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Facebook Janice LaVaun Taylor Alvear
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