Tramp for the Lord (17 page)

I looked at my Indian friend. His eyes were fixed on my face as he drank in what I was saying. I continued with the story. “Some time later a reception was held in Ottawa, Canada for all who wished to meet Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands. It was a pleasure to see so many Hollanders together. The prince looked tired, but he was cheerful and kind to us all. I met many old acquaintances. And then, suddenly, I was face to face with this same lady who had so adamantly disputed me some time before.

“‘I am glad to see you,’ she said genuinely. ‘I have never been able to forget what you said when you spoke at our university and quoted Jesus, “No man cometh unto the Father but by me.” I have tried to argue with that from every angle but am unable to get away from the fact that Jesus said it. I can argue with you, but I am having a difficult time arguing with Him.’

“‘How wonderful,’ I told her. ‘Now you are listening to the voice of God. Keep listening. He has much more to say to you.’

“ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe He does.’

“We parted and I have not seen her since, but I know the Sword of the Spirit is still doing its work in her life.”

I turned and looked at my Indian friend. He was nodding his head in understanding. “If we diligently read the Bible, the Holy Spirit will give us the right words and Scripture references,” I said. “If we depend on Him, we are like the branches of these vines along the river which bear fruit. However, if the branches are broken off, then no fruit will appear.”

By this time the forest had thinned out on either side of the river. We could see narrow paths which permitted the people to tread single file through the trees. It was almost dark, and I saw, coming down the paths, files of Indian people carrying torches of lighted palm leaves in their hands. The white clothes they wore gave the scene a strange, ethereal appearance as though they were pilgrims walking to heaven.

Many had gathered already in the
pandal
away in the distance and were singing a gospel song in a monotone, chanting it over and over as the white-robed pilgrims made their way to the meeting place.

After the meeting that night, I lay in my little thatched hut, praising God for the power of the Word of God which had not only drawn these people together, but which had won them to the Lord Jesus Christ. In my mind I listed five reasons why I believe the Bible is inspired:

1.   It says so: “Holy men of God spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost” (2 Pet. 1:21).

2.   The effect it has upon all who believe and follow it.

3.   Though some of it was written more than two thousand years before Jesus arrived on earth, yet all the writers agree.

4.   The authors do not offer any excuses for their own faults or sins.

5.   The writers record some of the most harrowing scenes which affected them greatly, yet they never express one word of emotion. The Holy Spirit wanted the facts recorded, and not their feelings about the facts.

Many persons make the mistake of thinking they can measure the certainty of their salvation by their feelings. It is the Word of God that is their foundation. Therefore, it is essential for the new convert in Christ to have a practical knowledge of the Bible. More than anyone else it is the new convert who will come under the fire of the Enemy. He needs the knowledge of the Sword of the Spirit. As the Lord Jesus used this Sword to overcome the evil one in His temptation experiences, so we must learn to defend ourselves against every sort of attack.

But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven….
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also
.

Matthew 6:20–21

H
appiness is not dependent on happenings, but on relationship in the happenings.

My father taught me this when I was just a child. He often told me of the early days of his marriage. He had opened a small jewelry store in a narrow house in the heart of the Jewish section of Amsterdam. Poor Mother! She had dreamed of a home with a little garden. She loved beautiful things and spacious views. “I love to see the sky,” she often said.

Instead, she found herself on a narrow street, in an old house—the kind with only a single room on each story—with worn-out furniture which they had inherited from Grandmother. Yet they were both happy, not because of the circumstances but because of the relationships in the circumstances.

There, in Amsterdam in that narrow street in the ghetto, they met many wonderful Jewish people. They were allowed to participate in their sabbaths and in their feasts. They studied the Old Testament together and, on occasion, even the New Testament.

I have remembered, many times, the lessons I learned from my father about happiness and happenings. But never was it so clear as when I was in Korea, many, many years later.

I had been in the Orient for three months, spending much of the time in Korea. While there, I spoke in many meetings in schools, orphanages, children’s homes and churches. One day, after I had spoken in a university, a theological student came to me. I had never seen such gloom on the face of a man who said he wanted to be a minister of the risen Christ.

“Why is it that you are so full of unhappiness?” I asked.

“I have lost my way,” he said sadly. “When I first became a Christian, my pastor taught me the Bible is true. In those days I had great happiness. But now I am studying the famous scholar, Rudolph Bultmann, who says our Bible is full of myths and fables. I have lost my way and no longer know where heaven is.”

I was angry. It did not seem right that the simple boys of Korea had to struggle through this horrible theology. They studied many hours at the universities, going to school twice as long as students in America. Yet because of what they studied, they often lost their faith. I answered his question about heaven by telling him what I had just seen and heard the day before while driving through the countryside.

There I saw the poorest shack I had ever seen. It was a tiny leanto, made from materials collected from the garbage heap—pieces of cardboard, tin cans which had been smashed flat, old boards … As we drove past, though, I heard the beautiful voice of a woman singing. Seldom, even in the concert halls of Europe, had I heard such a sweet voice. We stopped the car and listened, for it was like the song of a skylark.

I said to the missionary who was traveling with me, “Do you know that song?”

“Yes,” she said, “it says ‘Where Jesus is, ’tis heaven there.’”

Oh, how my heart leaped for joy as I heard this beautiful song coming from such a poor place. It is one thing to hear such a song in a dignified church, or pouring through the speakers of an expensive stereo set. But when one hears it coming from the poorest shack in the midst of such poverty, then it means something else.

I looked at the young theological student before me. “Jesus said, ‘The kingdom of heaven is within you’ (Luke 17:21). Bultmann is wrong, and Jesus is right. Heaven is not a myth or fairy story; heaven is a prepared place for prepared people. Theology in the hands of the Holy Spirit is a beautiful science. But in the hands of unbelievers, it is death.

“If you want to find where heaven is, get out of your stuffy classroom and go back out into the countryside. Listen to the simple faith of those who read only the Bible and trust only in God, not in material things. What do they care if some theologian says that heaven is a fable? They have found Jesus, and where Jesus is, ’tis heaven there.”

And how shall they preach, except they be sent?

Romans 10:15

T
he enemy tries to make everything work out for the worst. Usually it is not the big problems which depress me, but the multitude of inconveniences which stack up like small rocks to form an immovable mountain. Recently a series of such small incidents almost caused me to resign my commission from the Lord.

In my journeyings I often have to cross borders between countries. Knowing that smuggling is sin, I do not do it. My first irritation came through an encounter with a customs official.

“Do you have anything to declare?” he asked rudely.

“Yes,” I replied. “Nylon stockings.”

I had put them on top of my luggage to show him, for I knew that at that time it was necessary to pay duty on such items.

“There are four pair here,” he said. “You told me one pair.”

“No, I did not!” I answered.

But he did not believe me. For the next hour he searched my baggage. He tried all the little boxes to see if they had false bottoms. He squeezed my toothpaste tube to see if it contained diamonds. He checked my shoes for false heels which might contain drugs. He felt the hem of my dresses to see if I had sewn pearls into them. He almost pulled the lining out of my suitcases. Of course he found nothing at all and finally allowed me to pass—after paying the duty on the four pair of stockings. I was both offended and unhappy.

Later I understood why this incident had made me so upset. I had not surrendered my self-righteousness. I was so sure of my own honesty that I suffered from the consequence of wounded pride. It is easier to surrender one’s sins than one’s virtues!

Unaware of the reason for my depression, I then discovered that I had missed my plane connections due to the delay in the customs office. I was forced to sleep on a couch in the ladies’ room at the airport. However, I am a good sleeper and enjoyed a sound slumber. When I awoke, the amazed cleaning woman (who was sweeping the floor around my couch) said with admiration, “How wonderful to be able to sleep so soundly with so much noise going on around you.”

Eventually the plane on which I was traveling flew into a storm, making me feel airsick. Then the night following my arrival, there was an earthquake. I hate earthquakes, for they remind me of the bombs that fell during the war.

Then the kind people who should have arranged my meetings greeted my arrival with, “We thought you needed a holiday and rest, so we have not organized anything.” Sometimes this is God’s plan, but more often it is just a sign of people’s laziness to make preparation. So I did not appreciate the fact they had not arranged any meetings for me.

The final inconvenience—the one which caused me almost to give up completely—had to do with my room. My hosts put me in a small room that had no writing table. Ordinarily this would not have disturbed me, for I am used to writing on my knee. But on top of everything else that had happened, I crumpled like the camel loaded with straw. I blew up.

The reason was not hard to find. Self-pity had come into my heart. Self-pity is a nasty sin, and the devil uses it and always starts his talks with “Poor Corrie.”

This time he began by saying, “Why must you always live out of your suitcases? Stay at home and then you won’t have trouble with customs officials, passports, luggage, plane connections and other things. Every night you will be able to sleep in the same comfortable bed; and there are no earthquakes in Holland. After all, you are no longer young. You’ve lived like a tramp for many, many years. It is time to hang up your harness and retire into a nice green pasture. Let someone else do the work. You’ve earned your reward.”

By this time I was nodding. “Yes, yes, Satan, you are right.” So, having listened to his advice, I wrote a friend in Holland who managed an international guest house where at the time I had a room kept for me with my own few pieces of furniture.

“I believe the time has now come for me to work in Holland,” I wrote. “I am tired of all this traveling, and I cannot stand having wheels beneath me any longer. Will you arrange to have a desk—a big one—put in front of the window in my room; and an easy chair—a very easy one—on the right …” In my fantasy I had worked out a lovely dream of heaven here on earth, and me in the middle of it!

That afternoon I posted the letter and then came back to my room to look over my calendar. I jotted down all the names of people I would have to write, canceling my appointments. Everyone would understand. Had not many said, “My, you must be tired at your age!”?

Everything would have gone all right (or perhaps I should be truthful and say “all wrong”) had I not picked up my Bible. This old, black Bible has been my guidebook in times of light and in times of darkness. I began to read, asking, “Lord, what would You have me to do?”

I opened to the Book of Romans, chapter 10: