Seven Young Men

“And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, Here am I; send me.” — Isaiah 6:8 (ASV)

By the end of 1884, seven young men had offered themselves to the China Inland Mission, and the newspapers noticed what they had in common. They came from the class that ran Britain. Stanley Smith had stroked the Cambridge boat. Montagu Beauchamp was a baronet’s son. William Cassels was a curate. Arthur and Cecil Polhill-Turner came from a wealthy family, and Cecil was a cavalry officer. Dixon Hoste was an artillery lieutenant and a general’s son. And there was Charlie Studd, England cricketer. Someone called them the Cambridge Seven, and the name stuck.

They weren’t a natural team. Some were Anglicans, some went to newer independent churches. Some were loud, and Hoste was so quiet he was later called the odd one out. What joined them was a choice most people around them couldn’t understand: giving up careers and comfort to live as Chinese people lived, with no salary.

Hudson Taylor saw what their example could do among students. He was also careful. He didn’t want them treated as heroes, and he didn’t change the rules for them. They would sail as ordinary beginners and go where they were sent.

In January and early February 1885 the Seven spoke in universities and cities across England and Scotland. The halls were packed, especially for the two famous athletes. Studd wasn’t a natural speaker. Reports describe him as quiet but intense. He told students that he had loved cricket as much as anyone could, and had found in Christ something far better; that cricket wouldn’t last and honour wouldn’t last, but it was worth living for the world to come. He also told them about his six cold years, and warned that you could be a Christian and still keep Christ out of the centre.

On 4 February 1885 a crowd of about three thousand filled Exeter Hall in London for their farewell, and The Times reported it. The next morning they left for China. A book about them went all over the English-speaking world. In America, Kynaston told the story on college campuses, and at Cornell in January 1886 a student named John R. Mott heard him and later called it a turning point of his life. Mott became the leader of the Student Volunteer Movement, which sent thousands of young Americans and Canadians overseas.

There’s a shadow to this. In the same years the Mission sent out hundreds of others whose names nobody remembers: clerks, shop assistants, nurses, farmers’ sons and servants, many of them women. They wore the same clothes, learned the same hard language, and often died young of the same diseases. Nobody packed a hall for them. Paul wrote that “not many wise after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called.” The Seven were celebrated because they were exceptions.

Fame also did something to Studd. From twenty-four he was a public figure whose choices were reported and admired. It isn’t easy to live like that without starting to think your own judgement is especially trustworthy. That would matter later.

Isaiah’s “Here am I; send me” wasn’t the boast of a confident volunteer. It came after he saw God’s holiness and his own uncleanness, and was forgiven. He had nothing left to protect. Their lives went very different ways. Hoste would lead the Mission for over thirty years. Cassels became a bishop in western China. Studd would stay less than ten years. On that February morning, none of them knew. They only knew they had been asked, and had answered.

You may never fill a hall. Most faithful people don’t. God’s work runs mainly on people nobody writes books about.

One thing to do this week: find out the name of one person who serves quietly in your church, school or community, the one who sets up, cleans or cooks. Thank them in person, specifically.