hindu

From Persecutor to Persecuted, Part II

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The story up to this point:

Growing up in a large, traditional Hindu family in South India, Philip was like millions of other young boys until he joined the radical political organization called the RSS in his teens. This faction was dedicated to eradicating all western influences, including Christianity, from India. He took delight in harassing the local Christian community until one day he fell ill to a polio-like disease which left him crippled in all four limbs. Leaving no stone unturned his family searched all over for a cure, but in vain. He was devastated and even contemplated suicide. Then six years later he relented and decided to give the Christians one last try before ending it all. So one Sunday he hobbled over to the same Pentecostal church he had damaged before. The congregation prayed for him. However, nothing happened until three months later when, as he was praying in great agony of spirit, an audible voice instructed him to let his hands down. He was terror-stricken, but obeyed and was instantly cured! Getting on a bicycle he jubilantly pedaled to his father’s house, then on to 25 surrounding villages proclaiming that Jesus was the true God. The impact of his testimony was electric, and many rank Hindus acknowledged Jesus. But the ire of the devil was roused. He began mustering his diabolical forces.

The news of Philip ’s cure spread like fire through a parched prairie. Everywhere he went there was sure to be a crowd of curious villagers to whom he could witness, and he lost no time in declaring that Christianity was the true religion. For a time no one dared oppose him whom the gods appeared to have favored so highly. But the novelty of his cure dissipated soon enough from the hearts of the RSS leadership, his erstwhile comrades-in-arms. The significance of a former cripple going about winning converts to the hated western religion was not lost on them. Their movement was taking a beating in the public mind. The situation was becoming intolerable. The rage within their breasts reflected on their countenances as dark, ominous scowls. An emergency council was convened with one item dominating the agenda: How to stop the renegade. The decision that ensued was unanimous: An ultimatum would be delivered. If Philip did not immediately stop preaching Christianity, he would be eliminated. The last of the last iota of sympathy for him had evaporated. His life could now be counted in days, if not hours.

“You traitor,” the ruffians thundered one day, cornering him in the street, “How dare you’ve joined with the Christians? You must be getting money from the States. Hinduism is the most glorious of religions. We have all we can desire in our religion. If you don’t stop spreading this foreign religion we will kill you.”

Philip’s response was a dignified, eloquent silence. If he was afraid, he did not show it. But the real proof of his courage came with the passing days as he boldly continued preaching to the villagers. He had tasted the ambrosia of the gospel, and nothing—not even dire threats against his life—would be allowed to keep him from sharing the Jesus he had come to love. How could he deny the One who had mercy enough to cure him of his terrible malady? From the depths of hopeless despair he had been lifted to the heights of joy and hope. Far rather would he risk losing his life than chance making his Savior sad by bowing to the edicts of men. And, besides, had he not pledged, in the days of his affliction, to spread the name of the god who could heal him? No, he could never let intimidation cow him.

Rising up early he would take off for the villages around. As might be expected of a newborn Christian, his knowledge of the Scriptures was very limited. He could not give a Bible study on the 2,300 days yet, but he had a testimony which was as powerful as it was simple. Soon he would have an eager crowd of villagers milling around. To them he would relate the story of his incredible healing, and taking out his Bible would begin reading aloud from the gospels. Then, raising the pitch of his voice he would plead earnestly, “Jesus is the true God. He is superior to all our Hindu gods. If you want joy and peace and power in your lives, I invite you to come and bow before him.” The effect frequently would be dramatic. Many would come forward and acknowledge this great God who had cured him.

It quickly became apparent that Philip was not going to be brow beaten into submission by the RSS. He realized he was signing his own death warrant by flouting their wishes, but he could not bring himself to stop. While his obvious fearlessness further irked his enemies to new heights of hatred. Seething with uncontrollable fury they posted his name on the blackboard of the RSS offices and swore to kill him on a certain date. Philip, however, was not informed of this last decision. Nobody leaked the news to him. Thus, unknown to him, his last day on earth came hurrying on apace, while the hands of the clock ticked steadily toward the decisive hour. The fateful countdown had begun.

The day set for Philip’s execution dawned bright and cheerful, no different from countless others before. As always, he had breakfast, then set out boldly, yet unassumingly, on his mission for the kingdom of heaven. He was blissfully unaware that even at that moment grim hands were sharpening knives to plunge into his chest that night. Nor was he aware of the deadly serious, supernatural struggle being waged over him. The mighty angels of heaven had been commissioned to protect this saint of the Most High, while the demonic forces of hell vainly tried to obstruct access to him. A cosmic showdown, worthy of the nail-biting attention of the universe, was in the offing, and he didn’t even know he was on center stage in the spotlight.

Arriving at the fist village, Philip made contact with his interests as usual. Nothing seemed amiss as he prayed and studied with them. Then bidding them farewell, and promising to see them again soon, he continued on to the next village where the same scenario was repeated. Thus he made the rounds of the villages before setting a homeward course late in the day. The sun was westering low by the time he started back. It would be quite dark before he reached home, but he thought nothing of it. He had been over the same dirt road since childhood and knew every dip and curve like the back of his hands. However, there was just one thought which caused him a little apprehension: The road home led past the RSS offices which were somewhat isolated. There were not many houses in the area. With the threats emanating thence it was not the most congenial place in the world to be near at night. But stifling his uneasiness, and sending up a prayer, he reminded himself that he had been that way after dark before. Today would likely be another routine, uneventful passage. How greatly mistaken he was!

It was around nine o’clock when Philip finally came around the bend and saw the dim kerosene lights of his village in the distance. He felt relieved to be so close to home. The RSS offices in the foreground appeared deserted. No lights shone through the cracks in the wooden windows and doors. Everything was quiet except for the chirping of a few crickets in the grass. The huge tamarind trees lining the road were as silent sentinels keeping watch over weary travelers. Silhouetted against the starry heavens they were comforting in their massive permanence, but the shades of night assumed a somewhat eerier blackness beneath their large overhanging branches. A gentle breeze blew through their leaves and rustled in the bushes beside the path. It was a picture of peace. Even the mangy dogs, lying on the cowdung-paved yards of the mud houses, barely twitched their noses as his familiar footsteps approached. After all, the village was getting ready to bed down for the night. Nothing seemed to suggest that danger lurked in the shadows, as Philip unconsciously picked up his pace to go past the dreaded offices of his enemies.

Suddenly, like a thunderclap, the peace was shattered. “Stop!” a gruff voice boomed. Philip froze in his tracks, heart pounding madly in his chest. As if out of nowhere, more than a hundred dark forms quickly materialized from the shadows, completely surrounding him. Escape was impossible. Breaking into a cold sweat, Philip realized his utter predicament. He had walked into an ambush. The time had come for him to bear his last testimony, and seal it with his blood. Breathing a desperate prayer he watched as the figures drew closer, making the circle tighter about him. And now in the dim light of the stars he recognized his former friends. Something glinted in the hands of several—daggers! Others had stout sticks and stones. The leader stepped forward, “You have disobeyed our orders to stop preaching Christianity,” he yelled.” “For this you must die!”

If ever he needed presence of mind, Philip needed it now. He could see no ray of hope, but a strange calmness took possession of him. Heaven seemed near. Turning to the leader he replied, “You wish to kill me. That’s fine. But before you do, please allow me five minutes to say something. At the end of five minutes you can go ahead and kill me, I won’t mind.”

“All right, all right,” retorted the leader impatiently, “Go ahead and say what your problem is. Hurry up!”

This is all the break Philip needed. Seizing the opportunity he looked about earnestly at them and began: “For many years we were friends together in the RSS as we harassed the Christians and destroyed their churches. Then I fell sick and became a cripple. For six years I was among you, a destitute, but not one of you even came near to help me. You did not speak one word of encouragement when I was at the point of despair. Now Jesus has shown mercy and healed me, and you wish to kill me for preaching His name.” Then waxing bolder and more eloquent as the Holy Spirit took control, he continued, “Christianity is not merely a religion, it is the way of truth. Jesus is not only for the Christians, but for all of us too. . .”

For a few minutes there was pin drop silence as Philip’s words burned their way into the hardened hearts of his detractors. But soon, catching himself, the leader realized what was going on—he was the audience at a powerful evangelistic sermon! “That’s enough,” he cried, “Something strange is happening to our hearts as you’re speaking.” He drew imaginary circles over the left side of his chest. “If you keep this up you’ll convince all of us to become Christians too!” Then casting his weapon aside he turned and strode away.

A murmur rippled over the mob. It didn’t sound threatening. Now soft thuds could be heard as those carrying rocks dropped them harmlessly to the ground. The murmur grew fainter. More people were leaving the malicious ranks, their thirst for blood completely gone. A few more moments, and all was still again. Philip was left standing alone under the stars, punctuating the happy silence under his breath with praises to the God of heaven.

It would be wonderful if it could be reported that Philip was never persecuted for his faith again. But unfortunately, this was not the case. Just as the devil left Jesus alone “for a season” following his defeat at the hands of our Lord in the wilderness, so he left Philip for awhile while he licked his wounds and regrouped his forces. He was not about to give up without a fierce struggle. His next strategy was to employ his (Philip’s) parents against him, and the cosmic contest entered a new, more perplexing phase. The plan was to capitalize on an old, proven tactic—fear and human pride. But the God of heaven had His counterplans carefully laid too. The enemy of souls was about to suffer another crushing blow. However, the story must wait until we can meet you again in these pages.

God bless.

The End

From Persecutor to Persecuted, Part I

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Like millions of other young men growing up in the heart of south India, Philip was just another village lad, whose life revolved around home, school, and friends. He belonged to a large, devout, Hindu family, which like most traditional Indian families was very closely knit. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to break the monotony of his life until one day when he was in his teens, he was recruited by a militant political organization called the RSS. This is the same radical faction which assassinated Mahatma Gandhi for acceding to the dismemberment of India at the time of independence. Rabidly nationalistic, their motto is “India for the Hindus.” Their goal, as might be expected, is to drive out all western influences, including Christianity, from the country. Now there was some excitement to Philip’s life. Marching beside his fanatical peers, shouting patriotic slogans, vandalizing the local Christian churches while persecuting those belonging to this despicable foreign religion, he discovered the euphoria of an adrenaline rush, and perhaps even some meaning, however distorted, to his otherwise humdrum existence. Little did he realize at the time that his life of excitement had only just begun, that soon he would be experiencing euphoria of a different sort; compared to which his past adrenaline highs would pale into insignificance. For One mightier than all the Hindu gods he worshipped had chosen him as a brand from the burning, just as He had done Saul, the persecutor, two millennia before.

Just when it seemed that life was going great, Philip fell ill and all four of his extremities developed severe, crippling contractures. He calls it a “polio attack,” although the precise medical diagnosis is unknown. In any case, he was rendered unable to use his hands or feet. He was only fifteen years old, his entire life stretching before him, but now he was for all practical purposes relegated to the sidelines, a mere cipher in the eyes of society. His self-worth hit rock bottom, as dark, devastating despair rolled over him. Selling a portion of his ancestral properties, his father made the rounds of all the doctors and hospitals in the region in a futile bid to find healing for his son. Everywhere the answer was the same: It is hopeless; his condition is incurable; don’t waste your money on human help. So they turned next to the Hindu gods they revered, but to no avail. They even sought out the Muslim mosques and Allah, but help was always out of reach as he sank deeper into the abyss of depression. At one point he even considered ending his misery by drinking poison out of a bottle, but at the last moment his courage failed him. Perhaps he knew in his heart that he had not totally exhausted his avenues of help. Nevertheless he carried the bottle in his pocket.

For six years Philip suffered unimaginable agony of spirit. All his friends deserted him, and even his family just endured him. He was a pitiful wretch, if ever there was one. But finally, swallowing his pride, he decided to give the Christians one last chance before ending it all. And so it was that one Sunday morning found Philip hobbling toward the local Pentecostal church he had vandalized in the past. This time, however, he was not about to break its doors or destroy its tile roof. Slowly making his way to the front of the congregation he requested that the pastor pray for him. The surprised pastor, of course, was glad to oblige. But just as on numerous previous occasions, nothing happened. Three more months dragged by. Then one day the pastor dropped by for a visit. Greeting Philip he asked how he was doing. “I’m not even one percent better,” said Philip dejectedly. The pastor tried to encourage him and exhorted him to give God glory and recognize Him as the true God whether he was healed or not. So this is what Philip did right then on his knees. But nothing happened outwardly to break the long drought which was withering his parched, despairing soul. Thus another week passed into history.

The following Friday Philip was alone in the inner room of his house. It was past noon. He had been praying and crying for several hours already, but the walls appeared to be closing in relentlessly on him. The darkness of his soul was blacker than midnight. He had obtained a Bible by now and was trying to read it, but his desperation was driving him to the breaking point. And then it happened, the moment which will live in his memory through life, even into eternity. Suddenly the gloomy, palpable silence was shattered by a “divine, heavenly” voice. “Get up, get up,” it urged, “Let your hands down. Don’t keep them tied up.” Scrambling to his feet, Philip whirled around, his whole frame quaking with fear. But his terror-stricken eyes saw nothing unusual. Not sure if he had been dreaming, he glanced around the room to get a grip on himself. No he was not dreaming. The voice sounded again, more insistent, “Let your hands down; don’t keep them tied up,” while a strange dizziness came over him. At this he realized what was happening. The Holy Spirit was taking possession of his body! Raising his eyes heavenward he cried, “Oh God, this is the turning point of my life! You are going to heal me today. You are the only true living God! I will proclaim your name wherever I go.” Immediately his arms, which for six years had been contracted at the elbows, pressing against his chest, and his hands which had shriveled like claws, dropped to his side completely normal! And his feet and toes, which had contracted inwards so that he shuffled about on the outside edges, instantly straightened out.

Philip is at a loss for language to describe his feelings at this point. From the blackest depths of despair his spirits were propelled into the stratosphere, nay, into the very courts of heaven itself! Unable to contain himself he dashed outdoors screaming, “I’m healed, I’m healed.” Just like the beggar healed by the apostle Peter outside the temple in Jerusalem, he wasn’t sure whether to walk or run or jump or all three at once. Grabbing a bicycle, he pedaled furiously to his parent’s home as the neighbors came running out of their houses to see what the commotion was all about. Their eyes grew big as saucers and their mouths fell open as they realized what they were witnessing.

But Philip didn’t stay long at his home. He remembered his promise to proclaim the name of Jesus, so getting back on the bicycle he rode a total of more than sixty kilometers that day, covering over twenty-five of the surrounding villages. All he knew to say was, “Jesus is the true God. He healed me. If you want peace and joy and happiness in your life, just come and bow before Him.” The news was electrifying! Hordes of Hindus acknowledged that day that something unexplainable had happened before their eyes. Their gods had suffered an ignominious defeat at the hands of a superior God being proclaimed by Philip. The seeds of truth began to take root in their hearts. And some years later when Philip returned with a fuller knowledge of the Three Angels’ Messages, more than two hundred of them stepped forward and joined the Remnant church of Bible prophecy! Praise God!

Philip’s healing occurred in 1977, but it was five years before he became a Seventh-day Adventist, having learned the truth from a pastor of our faith. And what is almost as remarkable as his own healing is the gifts of the Spirit that the Lord has entrusted to him. His ministry has seen some truly astonishing instances of healing from diseases of the mind and body which were considered incurable by medical science. Some of these “healings,” as may be expected in the rank heathen culture, have occurred after hair-raising encounters with evil spirits. But the narration of these marvelous, faith-building stories must wait until later because of the constraints of time and space.

What must wait, too, are his spine-tingling experiences of deliverance as God interposed to save him from near-certain death at the hands of his former political friends, who became his mortal enemies following his conversion to the “foreign religion.”

Today Philip carries on a vigorous work which encompasses the full spectrum of the gospel; namely, healing, teaching, and preaching. He lives in a tiny, one room shack with his wife and two young sons. His wife operates a day school while he spends all his time in “village evangelism.” As noted, more than two hundred pagans, who look to him as their pastor, are today rejoicing in the Three Angels’ Messages on account of his labors. No human hands may have been placed on his head to ordain him to the ministry, but from his fruits it is obvious that Heaven has been pleased to separate him to the ministry to the Hindus of South India. Praise God!

Let all God’s faithful recognize this fact. Amen.

To be continued…