Was It Worth It?

“Jesus said, Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or mother, or father, or children, or lands, for my sake, and for the gospel’s sake, but he shall receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions; and in the world to come eternal life.” — Mark 10:29-30 (ASV)

By the late 1890s a few people, mostly young, were showing real interest in the gospel.

Their families reacted fast. A clever boy of seventeen who took the gospel’s side in an argument with the village elders was suddenly married and sent off. “It is often like that,” Amy wrote. “Just at the point where the soul-poise is so delicate that the lightest touch affects it, something, someone, pushes it roughly, and it trembles a moment, then falls—on the wrong side.”

Read these stories fairly. The families were not monsters. To them, a child who became a Christian was being lost to the family, its caste and its gods, and bringing a disgrace that could make a brother’s or sister’s marriage impossible. Many acted out of love and fear. Amy knew it. She wrote of a father who “loved him dearly” and still forced himself to flog his son, and of a mother who sat with her hair undone, wailing the death-wail for a son who had gone to the Christians.

There was the law, too. A minor couldn’t leave her parents to live with others, and a missionary who sheltered one could be prosecuted. Amy agreed with the principle. “It would never do,” she wrote, “if anyone could decoy away a mere child from her parents or natural guardians.” But in villages without birth registers, a girl had to prove she was old enough to choose, and her family held the papers. “The whole burden of proof lies upon us,” Amy wrote.

One girl, whom she called Treasure, wanted to be baptised and was ready to tell a judge so. Amy had to tell her that unless her age could be proved, nobody could protect her, and that being dragged back would be worse. Treasure asked, “Would God let them take me away? Would He not take care of me?” She stayed at home and suffered for her faith there. Amy left her readers with the question.

Some did come out, old enough to choose or with their families’ reluctant consent. One was Arulai, a girl from a Hindu family who would grow into one of the pillars of Dohnavur. Amy called converts “a responsible joy,” and she meant both words.

Then there were two boys. The younger was an only son, heir to property. His father flogged him twice. When he left home, his relatives sat round him and offered him a house, land, his inheritance at once and a rich bride, if only he would come back and save his caste. “I will not go back,” he said. A year or so later both boys were baptised together during a holiday by the sea. A few weeks after that, both died of cholera. The younger died with Hindu neighbours taunting him that this was his reward for breaking caste. Too weak to say much, he pointed upward and tried to sing.

“Was it worth the pain it cost?” Amy asked. “Such a short time to witness, was it worth while?” She had no neat answer. She noted that each boy had found one other boy, and she believed that if you could ask them, “they would tell you Jesus’ welcome made it far more than worth while.”

She also learned that publicity could be dangerous. Supporters wanted names and photographs, but a convert whose story was printed could be traced. She wrote that “we have learned by experience to fear any attempt to photograph spiritual fruit.” So she changed names in her books.

Jesus’ promise at the top of this page is generous: a hundredfold. But look at the two words in the middle: “with persecutions.” For many believers today, it still costs family, home and safety.

One thing to do this week: find out about one country where becoming a Christian is dangerous today, and pray for believers there. Then ask yourself honestly: is there anything you would find it hard to give up for Jesus?