Hudson taylor, god’s venturer

Chapter 12

Mr. Nee, tall and dignified in his silk gown and jacket, walked slowly along the narrow street. The coolies, with their rough straw hats and sandaled feet moved t one side as they saw his approaching, for he was obviously a man of learning, one who could not only read, but understand, the classics. As such, he was entitled to the respect of the unlearned. Those who recognized him knew also that he was a well-to-do businessman, and for this reason, too, the poorer people stood aside. Mr. Nee moved easily along the street with its flagged pathway and its wide doorways, musing on the uncertainties of life, and still more on the uncertainties of death. What, he wondered, happened after death? The mystery that shrouded that dark unseen disturbed him, making him apprehensive and uneasy. Where was the Way, the Truth that would bring relief and enlightenment to his perplexed mind?

The clanging of a bell attracted his attention, and he turned to see from whence the sound came. One of the double-leafed doorways stood wide open, and as Mr. Nee looked into the courtyard, he saw several people walking across it, and into the door of a long room. It looked at though some sort of meeting was about to commence.

“What are they doing in there?” he inquired of a street vendor, standing by his little portable stall.

“That’s the Jesus Hall,” came the reply. “Foreigners live in there. When they ring that bell, then they do their worship.”

“What do they do when they worship?” asked Mr. Nee.

“They sing, and read from their sacred classics, and then explain what they have been reading.”

Mr. Nee looked again at the open doorway, and decided to go in. He would investigate this foreign religion. Perhaps it would explain some of the dark mysteries of life and death. He entered the room, sat down on one of the benches, and looked toward the little raised platform where a young man was standing, reading aloud from a book he was holding in his hands.

At first sight, the young man appeared to be a Chinese, for he was dressed as such, and only his light eyes and white skin betrayed him. But Mr. Nee was not so much interested in the young man as in what he was reading, and he listened intently to the story of a conversation a Teacher called Jesus had with a man who came to see Him at night.
“As Moses lifeted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: the whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God sent not his Son into to the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.”

Everlasting life. That was what Mr. Nee wanted. Not to be condemned, but to be saved. He sat in the preaching hall that evening, gripped by what he heard. This Jeus, whom the foreigners worshiped, was God’s own Son. He had come from Heaven into the world as a Man, had died upon a cross, when He bore the sins of all the world, and after He had been dead three days, He came to life again. He came out of the tomb. He walked and talked with His friends, and then one day He left the earth and went back to Heaven. He would give everlasting life to all who believed in Him.

So this was the Way! Sitting in that preaching hall, with its rice-paper windows and rows of wooden benches, Mr. Nee knew without any doubt that this was the Way. Something within him responded unquestioningly to what he heard. His sadness and perplexity departed. When Hudson closed his Bible and ceased preaching, Mr. Nee rose to his feet. All eyes were turned to him as he said, with quiet, oriental gravity:

“I have long sought the truth, as my father did before me, without finding it. I traveled far and near, searching for the Way, but never found it. In the teachings of Confucius, the doctrines of Buddhism and Taoism, I have found no rest. But I have found rest in what we have heard tonight. Henceforth I am a believer in Jesus.”

“How long have you had this Good News in your honorable England?” he asked Hudson one day.

Hudson hesitated. This Chinese gentleman, who had responded so gladly and readily to the loving invivation of the living God was so eager that others should hear it too!

“Several hundred years,” said Hudson, rather reluctant to have to admit it was so long.

“Several hundred years!” exclaimed Nee in amazement. “Is it possible that in your honorable country you have known about Jesus so long, and only now you have come to tell us?” In his mind’s eye he saw a man he had loved, earnestly reading the classics, eagerly going to the temples to prostrate himself before the still, unresponsive idols, sitting in silent thought and meditation, seeking to understand the mysteries of life and death, a sadly wistful expression on his face.

“My father sought the truth for more than twenty years,” he said slowly. “And he died without finding it. Oh, why did you people not come sooner?”

Through Mr. Nee’s enthusiasm in speaking to all he met about Jesus the Lord, Wang the basket maker also became a believer. A cheerful, impetuous man was Wang and he went forward on the Chrìstian pathway not without a tumble or two! His sincerity was evident. He had been accustomed to working seven days a week like everybody else around him, until he joined the Christians. When he heard, however, that the living God had ordained that one day out of seven should be set apart as a day of holy rest, he obeyed the command without questions. It meant his employer did not give him any food, nor yet the princely salary of two-pence which was paid for each day’s work, although he was expected to accomplish as much in his six days as he had previously done in seven! But Wang the basket maker felt himself well repaid for his sacrifice as he sat in the Jesus Hall on Sundays and listened to the amazing stories from the Holy Book. And when his irate employer, during the busy season, informed him that if he would not work for him on Sundays he could not work for him at all, Wang decided that he must look for employment elsewhere.

On Monday morning he visited another basket maker, to find another job. No, he was not wanted. He went to another, with the same result. He tramped around the city in vain. Although they were all so busy, none of the basket makers would employ him. Wang came to the conclusion that the Devil was making things hard from him because he was determined to worship, instead of work, on Sundays.

“I must resist him,” thought Wang. He was not prepared to take that sort of opposition lying down, for Wang was a man of some spirit! “I will resist him! If he won’t let me get other employment, then I’ll give my time to plucking souls from his kingdom!” He made no further efforts to obtain employment, but took a bundle of tracts, and sallied forth into the street to talk to men he could find who were willing to listen to him preaching about Jesus! And that was how he met Wang the farmer.

Wang the farmer, some time previously, had had a remarkable experience. He had been lying alone in his home in the little village of O-zi, seriously ill, when he heard a voice calling his name. Knowing none of his family were in the house, he clambered slowly from his big, four-poster bed, to go to the door. No one was there. He lay down again, when for the second time he heard his name called. Once more he dragged himself to the door, only to find no one there. Thoroughly frightened, he cowered under the wadded coverlet. Surely, he thought, this was the voice of the King of Hell, come to warn him that death was approaching!

Then he heard the voice again. It told him not to be frightened, for he was not going to die. He was going to get well! And when he was well, he was to go to the city of Ningpo, thirty miles away, where he would hear of a new religion. This religion, the voice said, would bring him peace of heart.

To everyone’s surprise, Wang the farmer did get well! And remembering his instructions, he went to Ningpo. However, he searched in vain for the new religion. No one seemed to have heard of it. For several weeks he lived in the city, earning his living by cutting grass and selling it to people who had cattle to feed, always hoping to hear of the religion that would bring him peace of heart. But it was not until Monday when he encountered Wang the basket maker that he found it.

Wang the basket maker was sitting in a teashop, talking eargerly to a group of men who were in there sipping tea. He was talking about a God whom he called Jesus, who could forgive sins, when Wang the farmer came in and sat down. However indifferent the other listeners may have been to the preacher’s message, one at least was spellbound! Oblivious to the buzz of conversation that came from the men who lounged in bamboo chairs around the little tables of the teashop, deaf to the cries of the street vendors and the coolies passing up and down the narrow street outside, Wang the farmer had ears only for what the man at the next table was so eagerly telling those who were sitting with him. Forgiveness of sins, and a free entry into Heaven for all who came to this God, Jesus—was not this the new religion that would bring him peace of heart?

Wang the basket maker and Wang the farmer left the teashop together. They spent the evening poring over the New Testament, and Wang the farmer was told that he must go to Jesus Hall, where the foreign teacher would explain to him still more concerning this Jesus religion. Wang the basket maker went to bed that night with the knowledge that he had indeed snatched a soul from the Devil’s kingdom!

He obtained employment early Tuesday morning. The very first basket maker to him he applied took him on without hesitation. Wang soon discovered the reaon for this sudden reversal of fortune. His former employer, angered by his refusal to work on Sundays, had notified all the other basket makers, who belonged to the same society as himself, not to employ Wang if he came round on Monday looking for work. On Monday, therefore, Wang searched for employment in vain. But now it was Tuesday, not Monday, and that was quite a different matter. It was the busy season, Wang was a good basket maker, and whatever his for employer had meant, he had certainly said Monday. Any of the men who had turned Wang away the previous day would willingly have taken him on Tuesday.

It was not long after Hudson had been introduced to Wang the farmer that Wang the basket maker arrived one day at the Jesus Hall with another man. This time it was a painter, whom he had met in the courtyard of a wealthy family where he had gone to sell baskets. The ladies of the house, standing around him on their tiny, bound feet, wanting little baskets to keep their incense in, had inquired with some annoyance why he refused to make them. The single-hearted Wang explained that as a believer in Jesus, the True God, he could have nothing to do with idols, the incense that was burned to them, nor yet the baskets in which the incense was kept. The ladies had listened to this strange Jesus doctrine for a while, then, tiring of it, had turned back into the house. He was gathering up his baskets to carry them off the premises when a young man, dressed in coolie clothes, suddenly appeared before him.

“What was that you were saying?” demanded the stranger. “You didn’t see me—I was up there, painting.” He pointed to a ladder that leaned against the wall, under a gaily-colored overhanging roof. “What was it you were saying? I heard—but tell me again!”

Wang needed no second bidding. The painter listened again to this surprising news of a living God who desired to save, not to punish, erring men, and when it was suggested that he should go to the Jesus Hall to learn more, he readily agreed.

Hudson smiled and bowed at the new arrival. Wang the basket maker was certainly a good fisher of men! It was only a short time ago that he had brought along Wang the farmer, and now this one! He looked into the dark, earnest eyes of the young working man before him, and asked politely,
“What is your honorable surname?”

“My despicable surname,” came the answer, “is Wang.”