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Children’s Corner — A Favorite of Mr Sankey

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There Were Ninety and Nine

 

There were ninety and nine that safely lay

In the shelter of the fold,

But one was out on the hills away,

Far, far from the gates of gold—

Away on the mountain wild and bare,

Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.

“Lord, Thou has here Thy ninety and nine;

Are they not enough for Thee?”

But the Shepherd made answer:

“One of Mine has wandered away from Me,

And although the road be rough and steep,

I go to the desert to find My sheep.”

But none of the ransomed ever knew

How deep were the waters crossed,

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through

Ere He found His sheep that was lost.

Far out in the desert He heard its cry—

Fainting and helpless and ready to die.

“Lord, whence are these blood-drops all the way

That mark out the mountain’s track?”

“They were shed for the one who had gone astray,

Ere the Shepherd could bring him back.”

“Lord, why are Thy hands so rent and torn?”

“They are pierced tonight by many a thorn.”

But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,

And up from the rocky steep,

There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,

“Rejoice, I have found My sheep!”

And the angels sang around the throne,

“Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!”

 

The whole world has sung the “Ninety and Nine,” and listened with pleasure and delight to the cheering words that tell of a Savior’s care for the one that “was out on the hills away.” It only remains to tell the simple, strange little story of the song itself. Songs seem nearer and dearer when we know something of their history.

Thirty years ago those famous evangelists, Moody and Sankey, were preaching and singing together in old England. One day they were going from Glasgow, Scotland, to Edinburgh, for a great meeting there, and Mr. Sankey as he stepped aboard the train, purchased a penny religious paper. As he settled down in the car to read, his eye caught the lines of a poem, away in an obscure corner of the paper,—

“There were ninety and nine that safely lay in the shelter of the fold.”

The great singer read on, till the entire poem had been perused, and then he exclaimed, with a note of triumph in his voice, “Mr. Moody, I have found the hymn I have been looking for for years!”

“What is it?” asked Moody, looking up from the letter he was reading.

His friend explained that it was about the lost sheep.

“Read it to me,” said Mr. Moody, his eyes still fixed on the letter.

So Mr. Sankey read it, putting much expression into his voice, trying hard to do justice to the beauty of the sentiment. But alas! When he looked up, Mr. Moody was absorbed in meditation over his letter, and had heard scarcely a word.

“All right,” said Mr. Sankey to himself, with a smile, “you won’t get off so easy, my friend; you’ll hear this song later.” He cut out the poem, and stored it away in his pocket scrapbook.

So on their second day in Edinburgh before a great audience Mr. Moody had spoken eloquently and touchingly on the Good Shepherd, when he said, “Mr. Sankey, have you a solo to sing on this subject?”

The great singer was at a loss for once. Three times that day the congregation had sung the twenty-third psalm. So that would not do, and he could think of no other. And then those verses he had read on the train came before him like a flash, with the thought, “Sing those, by all means.” “But,” he objected, “how can I sing without a tune?” The audience was waiting. Mr. Sankey took the little scrap from his note-book, struck a full chord on the organ, and then, note by note, never sung before, came the first stanza. The thoughts flooded upon the singer, Could he remember to sing the second in the same way? But concentrating his mind, the second stanza, the third, and on through the fifth he sang, while the delighted audience sat still as death, little dreaming that the wonderful melody had never been heard before, even by the singer himself.

“Mr. Sankey,” exclaimed Moody, coming down where he stood, “where did you get that song? It’s wonderful! I never heard anything like it!

“O, that,” said Mr. Sankey, to his friend’s evident confusion, “that is the hymn I read to you on the train the other day!”

Taken from The Youth’s Instructor, March 29, 1904.

 

Children’s Corner — Trapped

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When I was eight years old I lived with my family on a farm in Nebraska. My favorite time of the year was harvesttime. At harvesttime, the leaves on the trees were yellow, and the air was fresh and chilly and scented with the smell of freshly harvested grain. My brother Nathan and I loved to ride with our Dad in the big combine as he went back and forth, down the rows in the field, harvesting the corn. The golden pile of corn grew as more corn streamed into the combine’s holding bin. When that was full Dad would empty the load into a grain cart that was pulled by a tractor. From there it was moved into a large grain trailer and finally into the huge grain bin.

 

Most fun of all was when Dad would let Nathan and me play in the grain trailer full of corn. We would jump from the sides, and slide down into the corn. What fun!

 

One day, when Dad was out in the field, Nathan and I decided we were going to play in the grain trailer. This time though, the corn in the grain trailer was being augured into the grain bin, where it would be stored for the winter. That means that the corn flowed through a trap door at the bottom of the grain trailer, and was then carried up to the grain bin by a piece of equipment called an auger.

 

We were having a wonderful time, jumping into the corn, and then climbing out before the corn pulled us down very far. In and out we went for a while until we were ready for something new. My brother decided that it would be fun if, when I jumped into the corn, he would hold me there for just a minute and then pull me out. And that is what he did.

 

Unfortunately, the pull of the corn was much stronger than he had imagined. It pulled me down, and down. When he tried to pull me out, I just sunk down deeper. Very quickly I was being buried in the corn. In seconds the corn was over my waist, then it was up around my shoulders. Both of us were really scared by now. Nathan tried as hard as he could to dig me out, but the pull of the corn was too strong. I felt the corn coming up—it was right around my face. Nathan shoveled with his hands as fast as he could to keep the corn from covering up my head so that I could breathe.

 

He started calling to my Grandfather, to stop the auger, but the machines were so loud that he could not hear. We screamed as loudly as we could, and finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the auger stopped. My Grandfather quickly climbed up the ladder of the grain trailer to see what was the matter.

 

I can still remember his look of fear at that moment. He and my brother started digging me out of the corn. Now that the corn was not pulling me down anymore it was not difficult, and soon I was out, safe and sound.

 

You know, our sins are like the corn in that grain cart. The devil tempts us to do wrong, and if we sin we start sinking. We might think that a sin is so small that it will not hurt us, but each time we sin we sink a little deeper. We become trapped in a pit of sin.

 

Jesus is like my Grandfather was for me. If we accept Jesus as our Savior, and give our lives to Him, He will dig us out of the pit of sin. Not only that, He will help us to overcome, so that the devil can not drag us down anymore with sinful habits.

 

I hope that you have chosen to give your life to Jesus completely. Every morning pray to Him and ask Him to take care of you that day, and help you to say NO when the devil tempts you to do wrong. Remember this verse found in Philippians 4:13, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

 

Children’s Corner — Wigton Martyrs

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The story of the Wigton martyrs reveals so much of fiendish cruelty, that every effort has been made to throw discredit upon the story. The more it has been investigated, however, the more apparent is the fiendish cruelty. The most ardent supporter of the Covenanters today would be intensely glad if it could be proved that the Wigton martyrs were not historical. The shameful picture of human degradation presented is an everlasting disgrace to humanity.

The chief figure of the martyrdom was Margaret Wilson, a young woman of eighteen years of age, famed for her nobleness of life, kindness of heart, and sympathetic generosity all in distress.
Very early in life she became a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and by her influence her brother and sister also became Christians.

Her father and mother attended the Episcopal Church, as by law they were compelled to do, under the death penalty, but the three children attended the field meetings held by the Covenanters.
Their youth protected them for a time from the fury of the oppressors, and their absence from the parish church was winked at. Whether it was because Mr. Wilson had a little property, or because there were few people to persecute, we cannot say, but one morning Margaret Wilson, aged eighteen, Thomas, aged sixteen, and Agnes, aged thirteen were reported by the curate as defaulters in church attendance.

“Send the dragoons after them,” said the cruel Grierson of Lagg, “and we’ll teach them their duty.”

A friendly hint was given to the Wilsons that the children were to be arrested, and a family council was held. It will surprise us to find the intelligent grasp the children had, not only of the Bible, but of the aims and objects of the Covenanters.

“We judge you not, mother, but were we to attend the curate’s church, it would be sinning against our Lord. He neither teaches the Word of God, nor does he endeavor to live it, as his drunken habits declare. To sit in his church means acknowledging all the King has done, which we cannot do. It sanctions the persecution of the poor Covenanters, whose only fault is they will worship God in as pure a manner as they possibly can. Our hearts are with these hunted men, and we will share willingly in their sufferings.”

And that night, after an affectionate farewell, the three wandered out to the moss hags in search of a hiding place from the dragoons.

When the soldiers arrived at Wilson’s house they were greatly surprised to find the children were not at home.

“Then, if you ever allow them to enter your house, or if you ever send them food, we will take you outside your own door and shoot you,” said the sergeant to the mother. “Tell me where they are hiding.”

“We know not where they are. They left here last night, preferring to endure suffering sooner than agree to the demand they felt certain you would make upon them.”

“We’ll make greater demands than ever when we find them. Let’s be after them, men.”

The dragoons searched all the caves they know, and pierced every thick bush with their sword, and traveled over the moss, but the Wilsons were safe. About a hundred soldiers in all were quartered at Mr. Wilson’s house, at great expense to him. He bore it patiently, even when they fined him. In all he lost 5000 merks.

The cave in which these noble children hid may be seen today by the curious. It has slightly altered its form through frost and rain. It has been formed been formed by two large slabs of stone, like the legs of an A, resting against each other. A small stone covers the mouth of it, and this was covered by some wild brambles and tufts of heather. It was small, wet, and necessarily uncomfortable, but here they spent the whole day, and at night searched for food.

On the death of Charles II, when the country was filled with hopes of a more lenient policy, the young Wilsons were advised by some of their Covenanting friends that they could now go safely home. They were a little timid about going to their parents’ house, and went rather to the house of a widow, about seventy years of age, named Margaret M‘Lauchlan. This woman was the other victim that sealed her testimony with her life.

Whilst at the widow’s house, Margaret Wilson met a man named Patrick Stuart, whom she know well, and who had received much kindness from her father. She inquired about her parents and others, and he gladly gave her all the news he knew. He was exceedingly attentive to her, and when he heard the story of their sufferings in the cave, he invited them to come next evening and partake of refreshments at his house. This they consented to do, trusting him, as to offer hospitality to Covenanters was a crime heavily punished.

There is a tradition to the effect that Patrick had been a suitor for the hand of Margaret, but that she gave him little encouragement. When they came to his home next evening, he renewed his offer of marriage, which she declined. He then asked her to drink to the King’s health, which she promptly refused to do. Without a word of warning or farewell he left the room, went straight to the Wigton authorities, and informed them where the Wilson children were.

Soon a company of dragoons sought them out, and the two girls were arrested and thrown into a horrible place called “The Thieves’ Hole.”

When Patrick informed on the Wilsons, partly through spite, and partly for the reward he recieved, he also informed upon the aged Margaret M‘Launchan, for entertaining the Wilsons. She was arrested soon after the two Wilsons, and thrust into prison.

Their sufferings in prison are part of the horribleness of their persecution. They were only supplied with food once a day, and that was of poor quality and quantity. They had no beds to lie upon, and lay down on the damp cell at nights. No complaint ever came from their lips, however, for they accepted all that came to them as part of the price they had to pay for their witnessing for God.

Now that they had been taken prisoners, it was found rather difficult to get a reasonable charge against them. It required little in those days, however, to be sentenced to death.

They were brought before the infamous Sir Robert Grierson, of Lagg, and charged with being at the battle of Bothwell Bridge, Ayr’s Moss, at twenty field conventicles, and a like number of house conventicles.

“We were never near Bothwell Bridge in our life,” said Margaret Wilson, “and even if we had, we were only twelve and seven years of age when that took place. We were never at Ayr’s Moss either.”

“Then you were at conventicles,” thundered Grierson.

“Yea, we have, and prefer them much to the dead preaching of the curates, whose hearts are blind. But there is nothing worthy of death in worshipping God in a pure manner on the hillside.” “Give them the abjuration oath,” shouted Grierson to an officer in Court.

By this oath the Covenanters were made to abjure a manifesto issued by the Cameronians, in which they renounced the authority of Charles Stuart, condemned the killing of those who differed in judgment, and in which they declared they would stand up for their rights as religious men and women.

All the three women refused to take this oath, as the Court expected.

“To death then, to death,” shouted that monster of iniquity, Grierson, and he then passed sentence.

“Upon the 11th of May ye shall stand to be tied to stakes fixed within the flood mark in the water of Blednock, near Wigton, where the sea flows at high water, there to be drowned.”

In the wildest moments of fear they had never expected such an inhuman sentence. The whole of Wigton was filled with excitement, and Mr. Wilson at once hurried to Edinburgh to intercede with the Privy Council on behalf of his daughters. He managed to get the youngest daughter liberated on paying a fine of 100 merks, the last of the poor man’s money.

Margaret Wilson was besieged in prison by her friends, who used all their powers to get her to take the abjuration oath. The terrible grief of her mother tried her sore, especially when the mother upbraided her for lack of obedience to her parents.

“If my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

“I did not mean that,” said the mother hysterically, “but the sword hath pierced my soul. Could you not relent so far as to promise to listen to the curate, Sunday by Sunday.”

“That were to acknowledge Prelacy as right, and deny that the hill folk are right.” She was unmovable.

The widow made an appeal to the Privy Council, in which she offered to take the oath of abjuration. She appealed to her age as another reason why she should be left alone.

The Secretaries of State granted a reprieve to the two women, as the Register of the Acts of the Privy council attest, but the reprieve was never put into force. Why this was so has never been satisfactorily explained—save it be that Lagg had no wish to be cheated out of the sport it would be to him to see two women put to death in this novel and barbarous manner.

On the 11th of May, Major Windram with a troop of soldiers came to the Tolbooth of Wigton and demanded the two prisoners.

It was a beautiful May morning, and the crowds of people dressed in their best attire made it look more like a gala than a procession of death.

The sight of the two large stakes erected in the sand, one thirty yards further out than the other, took the colour from the cheeks of more than the prisoners. Women began to weep, and men began to clench their fists and grind their teeth. It required but one man to lead, and they would have torn the soldiers to pieces; but the leader was not there.

“We are called upon this day to give a worthy testimony for our Lord. He hath done us much good and no ill these years we have served Him. This day shall we behold Him in the glory of His risen power, and I do rejoice the end is so near at hand,” said Margaret to the widow, who had now become courageous. The widow was marched out to the stake nearest the sea and there tied securely. It was hoped to break the spirit of the young woman by the sight of the widow’s death. Possibly they were afraid that unless the widow was drowned speedily she would recant, and so spoil their fiendish sport.

Slowly the sea in golden crests crept along the sand and lapped the widow’s feet, as though hungering to devour her.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me,” she said quietly, and her face had a new light in it, as though the sea, gilded with the golden sun, had reminded her of the city of God.

Higher and higher came the water, and the women on the beach turned their heads away as it reached her waist, and at the same time touched the feet of Margaret Wilson.
“The Lord will this day cleave the waters of death asunder for me, and I shall behold the Lamb in his beauty,” she cried out to the weeping mob.

The water had now reached the widows neck, and Lagg and others began to make sport of her as they saw her strain her neck to keep out of the water. A wave passed over her, and the struggle of death began. Margaret Wilson saw the struggles of the widow, and her voice was raised in prayer that God would take Margaret M‘Lauchlan to Himself.

“What thinkest thou of that?” said a soldier to Wilson, pointing to the death struggles of the widow.

“What do I think! I see Christ in one of His members wrestling there. Think you that we are the sufferers? No, it is Christ in us, for He sends none a warfare upon their own charges.”
She then began to sing the 25th Psalm, and those on the beach who had lost their timidity joined her in some of the lines:

“The Lord is good and gracious,

He upright is also;

He therefore sinners will instruct

In ways that they should go.”

The sharp turning of the soldiers smartly silenced them, however.

As the water crept on towards her shoulders, she closed her eyes in prayer. Her mother rushed to the edge of the water, and besought her with tears to say, “God save the King.”
“Pray with me mother that I may not fail at the last moment,” was her reply. And her eyes closed again, and her lips moved. A great hush came over the crowd, which was only broken by the jeers of Grierson.

“God receive my spirit,” said Margaret, as the water once or twice lapped her face. There was the gasping of drowning, and, to the joy of all, a soldier rushed into the water, cut Margaret’s bonds, and brought her to the shore. The people shouted with glee, and the mother wept for joy. It was unheard of mercy, and though Margaret seemed more dead than alive, the remedies they used soon restored her to consciousness.

It was then seen that the mercy was the work of a fiend, and not of a human heart. Lagg’s sport was too soon coming to and end, and he had restored her life to torture her again. Major Windram went forward and began to test her.

“Will you pray for the King?”

I wish the salvation of all men and the damnation of none,” she answered meekly.

“Oh, Margaret, why will you throw away your life,” said her mother in terrible agony.

“Say ‘God save the King, God save the King.’”

“God save him if He will; for it is what I often have prayed for, and do pray for now.

But, mother, you do not understand these monsters.”

“Sir, my daughter hath said it, she hath said it, let her go free,” said the mother, frantically,throwing herself at the Major’s feet.

Margaret had meanwhile closed her eyes in prayer. She knew, instinctively, that they had determined on her death.

“See, my daughter is praying for the King,” said Mrs. Wilson, pointing to her daughter.

“We want none of her prayers,” said the brutal Lagg. “Tender her the abjuration oath, and, if she refuse, let her drink some more of the sea.”

“I am ready for death; I will not take the oath. I trust God may forgive you this murder before your hour of death comes. I am one of Christ’s children, and have done naught worthy of death.”

“Back to the sea, back to the sea with the hag,” cried Lagg, and two soldiers lifted her in their arms, waded in as far as they could, and then flung her headlong into the sea. They then pushed her head under the water with the butt end of their guns.

In this fiendishly cruel manner died two innocent, noble women. This crime has caused several names to stink in the nostrils of the world. Grierson of Lagg will ever be looked upon as a monster more that a man.

The story of the Wigton martyrs spread like fire over the length and breadth of Scotland, and inspired the Covenanters with joy that two of their number had been so faithful. It caused many Royalists to become friends of the Covenanters, afterwards. Three of the children of Major Windram from that hour were Covenanters in heart, and died as such.

If there was a sharpening of weapons amongst the covenaters after this, who can blame them? To defend oneself from such barbarity surely needs no excuse.

Two stones have been erected over the graves of these two women, whose bodies lie in Wigton Churchyard. The memorial in Stirling churchyard will be familiar to many of our readers. A transcription of the Wigton stones may be of interest:

“Here lies Margaret M‘Lauchlan Who was by unjust law sentenced to die by Lagg, Strachan, Windram, And Grahame, and tied to a stake for her Adherence to Scotland’s Reformation,Covenants, National, and Solemn League.”

The other one reads as follows:

“Let earth and stone still witness bear There lies a virgin–martyr here, Murdered for owning Christ supreme Head of His Church, and no more crime But not abjuring Presbytery, And her not owning Prelacy. They her condemned by unjust law; Of heaven nor hell they stood in awe. Within the sea, tied to a stake, She suffered for Christ Jesus’ sake. The actors of this cruel crime Were Lagg, Strachan, Windram, and Grahame.

Neither young years nor yet old age could stop the fury of their rage.”

Three Gardens

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We are in a contest of time and space and circumstance which creates a very real need for a strong, true, vibrant faith. You may think you have heard enough about faith, so let me try a different approach to get past your guard and plant some thoughts as seeds in your mind about faith. Our study will be divided up into three sections, each one about a garden.

Section One:

Our Father Meets an Enemy in a Garden

“And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.” “And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.” Genesis 2:8, 15. That was a pretty nice garden. They are not making gardens like that now. We think about compost and vegetation, and things that die to make other things live. But, they were not working on that basis in this garden. Nothing had to die in order to make something live. The soil was so perfectly rich and balanced in all the nutrients, that you did not have to add anything. It was all there, perfectly created by the Master Gardener Himself. All you had to do was cooperate with the laws of nature, and the results were wonderful. That is what our father, Adam, was doing.

The soil, of course, did not have rocks like New England. When I went to Atlantic Union College, I bought a little piece of land in order to build a home in the country. I noticed rocks sticking up here and there all over the land. I noticed fences made out of rocks. I thought, “Well, I’ll get a bulldozer in here and we’ll smooth this all out and I’ll plant grass.” Then a friend told me, “Don’t bring any bulldozer in here. It will turn up ten rocks for every rock you scrape off. There’s no end to the rocks here. It’ll just stir up the soil and you will have a big, big harvest of rocks; that’s all you’ll have.” So I left it the way it was and let nature take care of it.

You can see, we have handicaps here that they never thought of in our father’s garden in Eden. Another example is the adobe soil in California. This is strange soil—almost hard as concrete when it is dry, and soft like slush when it is wet. But the garden of Eden had the right texture all the time. There is a statement that it was watered from underneath. Have you been to the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico and wondered about those miles and miles of underground tunnels there, and the tunnels back in Kentucky which they tell me are larger still? The water in Eden was probably flowing underneath and came up to the soil. That is the ideal arrangement. I have no use for rain. I have lived in some very rainy places, both here and in the tropics, and I can get along fine with no rain at all if we could water things without it. So, I see the ideal as a land where the water seeps up from underneath and waters everything, but the top of the soil is always dry. You could lie down on it and not get wet.

The temperature must have been something like Hawaii, an average of about 70 degrees. The fruit was magnificent. The vegetables were marvelous. The flowers were beautiful beyond compare. Our father—your father and my father, loved that garden. He loved to work it. It was his to dress and tend. I suspect that he had pathways prepared with little colonies of this kind of a plant, and little plantings of that. It was a place of marvelous beauty.

But Adam was being closely watched, because our father had an enemy. He was not fully aware of why this enemy should have it in for him, but he did. Lucifer was studying our father, watching his every movement and wondering: “How can I get to this created human being in such a way that I can influence him and cause his heart to rebel against the Heavenly Father who created him?” As Satan watched, he observed something. The most precious thing to our father upon this earth, was his wife, Eve. That gave Satan an idea. “If I can work through her, and cause her to be damaged or destroyed, I could get to Adam.” So he studied Eve. He watched carefully to see what her mind considered beautiful and what her thoughts were. It did not take him long to see that Eve was a lover of beautiful things. Just about the most beautiful thing around the garden, was the serpent that had wings. Practically in all mankind, there is, in their tradition, a story of the winged serpent. In the discoveries of stonework down in Central and South America they find carved pictures of a serpent with wings. This tradition goes way back into the memory of man, the serpent with wings, the flying serpent. The devil arranged things so that every time Eve enjoyed admiring the beauty of that serpent with wings, the serpent was a little closer to that forbidden tree. Finally his purpose was accomplished. You know what happened, she was deceived. She took of the fruit and ate it. When this became known to Adam our father, it blew his mind. This is what the devil planned.

Adam was confronted with a problem that he thought was too much for God to handle. You see the point? That is still a problem today. Every one of us have had that sort of situation, at least temporarily—a problem that looked like it was too much for God to handle. “God can do a lot of things, I’m sure, but He can’t handle this. There’s no hope. There’s nothing even God can do about this.” That is typical of the human family. We see so many examples of it. When Abraham got into the country ruled by Abimelech, he decided that his beautiful wife, Sarah, was going to be at risk. He said, “You tell them that you’re not my wife. Tell them that you’re my sister.” He seemingly thought God could not handle this problem. He was in the foreigner’s territory, and was at the mercy of the king. He could not defend himself against the power that was in control. He figured, “God can’t do anything about this. I’ll have to seek another solution.”

We could also think of the people of Israel coming to the border of the promised land at the edge of the Jordan River and pausing there to send the spies into the land. When the spies came back with their ten spies giving a terribly dismal report, what was the reaction? “It’s hopeless, it’s hopeless, it’s hopeless. God has not the ability, or the strength, to handle this problem. He can’t deal with this.”

Let us bring it up to our modern times. This is something that everybody goes through when they decide to start keeping the Sabbath. Those of us who came in from the world, had to struggle with that problem. I was working in a plywood factory in the state of Washington on Friday nights. I was warned by some that if I tried to keep the Sabbath they would fire me, because it had happened to others before. I had to struggle with that problem. Is the Lord able to handle this, or is He not? I finally decided I would rather lose my job than lose my soul. But, I will never forget the struggle. I have done some hard things in my life, but I do not believe anything was harder than for me to go into the office where that rough old lumber man stood who owned the mill. He was chewing tobacco, chewing on a cigar, and spitting his tobacco juice into a spittoon on the floor—just as rough a character as you will ever find. How do I talk to this man about spiritual things? But I did—by the grace of God I did it.

As an evangelist, I have seen so many men and women come up to this awesome situation, and they have the question, like Adam had—”Can God handle this problem? Can I keep the Sabbath on this job? If I lose this job, can God help me get another job?” It is a powerfully big problem. They either take the advanced step and say, “I will begin keeping the Sabbath,” and discover something—that God is watching, and that He has a plan all the way from there to the kingdom for each one. Or if they do not take that step of faith, they never know anything about that plan.

What can we learn about all of this from Adam? He saw a problem, and in his view, it was beyond any solution. He decided he would rather be lost with Eve than live without her. Those two choices were not the only choices, because God had already solved the problem before it started. Take a look at the scriptures. “Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace.” Now look at this carefully: “which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began.” 2 Timothy 1:9. [All emphasis supplied.] “And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, [that is the anti-Christ,] whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.” Revelation 13:8. God was not taken by surprise by the sin of Eve. It was certainly a sad situation, but to think of it as something that God could not handle, that was the big mistake. It was not by any means something that God could not handle. We find a statement like this: “The plan for our redemption was not an afterthought, a plan formulated after the fall of Adam.” Desire of Ages, 22. It was made long before the fall of Adam. “It was a revelation of ‘the mystery which hath been kept in silence through times eternal.’” Romans. 16:25, R.V. “From the beginning, God and Christ knew of the apostasy of Satan, and of the fall of man through the deceptive power of the apostate. God did not ordain that sin should exist, but he foresaw its existence, and made provision to meet the terrible emergency.” Ibid.

The point is that God has no problems in the sense that we humans think of them—as being something that He cannot handle. No problem is any harder for God than any other problem. No problem is any easier for God than any other problem. To Him, they are all just a matter of His will, that is all. We want to think about that when we consider the principle involved here. This statement makes it personal. “If we surrender our lives to His service, we can never be placed in a position for which God has not made provision.” Christ’s Object Lessons, 173. Notice the past tense. No matter what kind of a situation you get into, God was there ahead of you. God sized the whole situation up ahead of us. He decided just what avenue of escape He would have ready for us. It is no problem to Him. God makes decisions, but He has no problems at all. Adam’s great mistake was to feel that this problem was too much for the Lord.

In our modern times, we find people struggling with believing that God can solve their problems. We should remember to look back across the years. It is clearly stated that God foresaw the problem of Israel wanting a king. Patriarchs and Prophets, 603. He foresaw the problems that would lead to the captivity of Israel. Prophets and Kings, 408. Jesus foresaw the treachery of Judas. Bible Commentary, vol. 5, 1102. But look especially at this thought: God foresaw the delusive doctrines of the last days. Testimonies, vol. 8, 201.

If I would ask you what our biggest problem is now, many would say: “The horrible false doctrines that are assailing the church, the apostasy in the church.” God foresaw it. God foresaw that you would be living in these last days seeking a place of refuge on Sabbath mornings, not wanting to listen to error from the pulpit, but wanting to hear the pure Word of God and the Spirit of Prophecy expounded. God knew exactly what He was going to do about this problem of apostasy, and these last day delusions. In Review and Herald, September 6, 1898, is a similar statement about how God foresaw the last day arts and devices of Satan. So God has no problems! We have a most horrible problem if we ever suspect that anything has happened to us that God cannot handle. God can handle it! He can handle the problems of the church. He can handle the problems of our individual lives. He can handle anything and everything that comes along, because He was there first. He is watching the whole thing from above, where He sees ahead.

Section Two:

Our Brother Meets an Enemy in the Garden

“When Jesus had spoken these words, he went forth with his disciples over the brook Cedron, where there was a garden, which he entered, and His disciples.” John 18:1. “They came to a place which was named Gethsemane: and He said to His disciples, Sit ye here, while I shall pray. And he taketh with him Peter and James and John, and began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy; And saith unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful unto death: tarry ye here, and watch. And he went forward a little, and fell on the ground, and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him.” Mark 14:32–35.

Compare this problem with Adam’s problem. Adam’s problem was that he might lose his companion. The comparison is one sided, because Christ is facing the problem of being cast into non-existence, (which will be the equivalent of the sinner’s death) a much greater problem. If anybody would have a temptation to think “This is too much for the Lord,” it would be Jesus. He struggled. Yes, we have to admit, He struggled. The struggle is easy to understand when we consider what He was giving up—the dominions of all the universe, the glory and the adoration from all.

But if you look at these two garden scenes there were differences. Our Brother in the garden of Gethsemane appeared much smaller than our father in the garden of Eden. He did not look a lot like him. The garden itself, instead of being the beautiful scene that we talked about in Eden, was a rough and rocky hillside. The best thing they could grow there was olive trees.

The Man Himself, our Savior, our Brother, was weaker than Adam. Notice this comment,”When Adam was assailed by the tempter, none of the effects of sin were upon him. He stood in the strength of perfect manhood, possessing the full vigor of mind and body. He was surrounded with the glories of Eden, and was in daily communion with heavenly beings. It was not thus with Jesus when He entered the wilderness to cope with Satan. For four thousand years the race had been decreasing in physical strength, in mental power, and in moral worth; and Christ took upon Him the infirmities of degenerate humanity. Only thus could He rescue man from the lowest depths of his degradation.” Desire of Ages, 117.

To study this for yourself, read the chapter “Gethsemane” in Desire of Ages. There you will have a look into the heart of Jesus, a look right into His soul, to see what he was fighting with. It describes what being numbered with the transgressors meant. The guilt of fallen humanity He must bear. Upon Him who knew no sin must be laid the iniquity of us all. He is tempted to fear that it will shut Him out forever from His Father’s love. He is staring annihilation in the face—non-existence. He falls prostrate to the ground. The thought of being separated from His father was so broad, so black, so deep, that His spirit shuddered before it. This agony, He must not exert His divine power to escape. He could have. He could have backed out even then.

He stretched out on the ground and tried to cling to the soil with His hands, as if He were going to be shaken loose from it. Three times He went back to the disciples to see if He might get some comfort and encouragement from them, some realization that what He was doing had value in their sight. But they were asleep, all the while. He did not get any help there at all. Finally, when He made that supreme decision, “He fell dying to the ground.” He would have died right there except for miraculous intervention. He would not have gotten to the cross at all. Jesus had an enormously stronger reason to judge the immensity of His problem than Adam had. But, He said, “My Father has no problems. My Father is in control. All that my Father gives shall come to me.” This time it was victory, instead of failure!

To make this personal—do you ever feel a sense of panic? Events among the nations, events in our church, events in our own lives—that is where it comes close to us. Remember our father’s experience? He decided that God could not handle his problem, so he gave in. But God had it all solved. Christ would have died for Eve if nobody else had ever sinned. There was a problem but, there was a solution available. So remember our father, and remember our Elder Brother, and never doubt God’s power.

The Spirit of Prophecy focuses on this particular problem—feeling that God can not handle it, and that things are out of control. Do you think anything ever happens to you when God is not looking, that He just does not care about? There is nothing about you that He does not care about. There is nothing that He is not interested in. Every aspect of our entire life experience is important to Him, but He is taking a long view.

Sometimes we take the short view. We will look at a few lines to remind us of what is said to us about this particular question: “Can God handle this? Or is God off somewhere paying attention to other things and not watching?” “Many who sincerely consecrate their lives to God’s service are surprised and disappointed to find themselves, as never before, confronted by obstacles and beset by trials and perplexities. Like Israel of old they question, ‘If God is leading us, why do these things come upon us?’ [Here is the answer.] It is because God is leading them that these things come upon them. Trials and obstacles are the Lord’s chosen methods of discipline and His appointed conditions of success.” Ministry of Healing, 470, 471. “God’s care for His heritage is unceasing. He suffers no affliction to come upon His children but such as is essential for their present and eternal good. [No affliction, from the largest, to the smallest.] All that He brings upon His people in test and trial comes that they may gain deeper piety and greater strength to carry forward the triumphs of the cross.” Acts of the Apostles, 425.

Does God really take personal interest in you? “He who is imbued with the Spirit of Christ abides in Christ. Whatever comes to Him comes from the Saviour.” Ministry of Healing, 489. Look at that carefully. That is a bold statement. “Whatever comes to him comes from the Saviour.” You mean all of this hard luck, all of these disappointments? Yes, everything. There are no exceptions. “Nothing can touch him except by the Lord’s permission. All our sufferings and sorrows, all our temptations and trials, all our sadness and griefs, all our persecutions and privations, in short, all things work together for our good. All experiences and circumstances are God’s workmen whereby good is brought to us.” Ibid., 488. “God never leads His children otherwise than they would choose to be led, if they could see the end from the beginning and discern the glory of the purpose which they are fulfilling as co-workers with Him.” Ibid., 479.

Faith is like a diamond—it has many facets. We are studying a couple of those facets in this article. We have looked at your trials and your faith. Let us look at another aspect of faith—your words and your faith. We are told, “It is a law of nature that our thoughts and feelings are encouraged and strengthened as we give them utterance. While words express thoughts, it is also true that thoughts follow words.” Ministry of Healing, 251, 252. You can talk yourself into a lot of discouragement and doubt. You can talk yourself into total doubt, total unbelief, total abandonment of the truth, just by talking about how bad things are. “Talk of faith, of light, and of heaven, and you will have faith, light and love, and peace and joy, in the Holy Ghost.” Testimonies, vol. 1, 168. If you love darkness, talk about it—it will come. Ibid., 699. “Those who talk faith and cultivate faith will have faith, but those who cherish and express doubts will have doubts.” Testimonies, vol. 5, 302.

In Ministry of Healing, 250 we are told, “When temptations assail you, when care, perplexity, and darkness seem to surround your soul, look to the place where you last saw the light” and talk about that. Our words have a reaction upon ourselves. If we express our gloomy thoughts, “Oh, how terrible this is, how terrible that is,” we will talk ourselves into a bad condition, because thoughts follow words. But we can train ourselves to say, “That is bad, but it is no problem to the Lord.”

We live in a time when some terrible things are happening. It will get us down if we are not careful. It will depress us and discourage us. We must fight that depression and discouragement. We must fight that awful feeling of goneness when we see horrible things happening. “God calls upon His faithful ones, who believe in Him, to talk courage to those who are unbelieving and hopeless.” Christian Service, 234. “If we will restrain the expression of unbelief, and by hopeful words and prompt movements strengthen our own faith and the faith of others, our vision will grow clearer. The pure atmosphere of heaven will surround our souls. Be strong and talk hope.” Testimonies, vol. 6, 462. “Never allow yourself to talk in a hopeless, discouraged way. If you do you will lose much. By looking at appearances and complaining when difficulties and pressure come, you give evidence of a sickly, feeble faith.” Now look at this line, “Talk and act as if your faith was invincible.” Christ’s Object Lessons, 147.

Section Three:

Our Father Meets Our Brother in a Garden.

This is a beautiful scene talking about the redeemed coming to the gates of the Holy City. “As the ransomed ones are welcomed to the City of God, there rings out upon the air an exultant cry of adoration. The two Adams are about to meet. [Christ and Adam] The Son of God is standing with outstretched arms to receive the father of our race—the being whom He created, who sinned against his Maker, and for whose sin the marks of the crucifixion are borne upon the Saviour’s form. As Adam discerns the prints of the cruel nails, he does not fall upon the bosom of his Lord, but in humiliation casts himself at His feet, crying, ‘Worthy, worthy is the Lamb that was slain!’ Tenderly the Saviour lifts him up, and bids him look once more upon the Eden home from which he has so long been exiled.” Great Controversy, 647. Did you know that the garden of Eden is in heaven? Pretty nice. I want to be there. Don’t you? Faith is the victory. We have got to have faith that will never look at any problem of any dimension and say, “This is too much for the Lord.” Nothing is too much for the Lord! He has it all figured out. He knows exactly what his response isgoing to be to every trial that comes along. All we have to do is hang on to Him for dear life, and never let ourselves doubt in any way.

Children’s Corner — From Persecutor to Persecuted, part 3

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The story up to this point: Until his teens, Philip was like many millions of children growing up in southern India. Then one day he was recruited by a radical political faction, the RSS, dedicated to eradicating all western influences from India. He became active in persecuting the local Christians when, shortly, he fell ill and developed crippling contractions of all his extremities. Every effort at finding the cure proved futile. Philip was devastated. A virtual beggar for six years, he contemplated suicide, but, at the last moment, backed out of drinking a bottle of poison. He turned to the gods of the Hindus, but they were unavailing, as was Allah of the Muslims. Finally, swallowing his pride, he went to the local Pentecostal church where the congregation prayed for him. Nothing happened then, but three months later, while praying alone in great agony of spirit, he heard a “divine” voice instructing him to “untie” his hands and let them down. Tremblingly he obeyed and was instantly cured. Shouting with joy, he jumped on a bicycle and rode home, then on to twenty-five surrounding villages, triumphantly proclaiming Jesus of the Christians, This caused a sensation and many Hindus acknowledged the true God. But his former political friends were enraged. Moved by a spirit from below, they served him an ultimatum to stop preaching Jesus or face death. Philip launched into an earnest appeal which touched the hearts of his enemies. They left him unhurt and rejoicing. The Devil retreated for awhile, but was not about to give up. His next strategy was to work through Philip’s parents. But the God of Heaven was looking after His own. The enemy of souls was about to suffer another crushing defeat.

Their attempt to kill Philip thwarted, the RSS leadership realized that another method to stop Philip from spreading Christianity had to be devised. They now turned to his parents, and with barely veiled threats coerced them into cooperation.

The elder Mr. Jagadeesan was a man of standing in the community. He was fairly wealthy by local standards and commanded much respect in the village. A staunch Hindu, he was an exemplary patron of the village temple, but his son’s conversion to Christianity was an acute embarrassment. Much as he rejoiced in the healing Philip experienced, he was nonplused by his determination to spread his new-found faith. Secretly, he wished he could learn more about his Jesus whom Philip was so enamored with, but his pride stood in the way. It would never do to let the world know he had leanings toward the foreign religion, so he covered it up with an outward bravado. He would protect his dignity at all costs. Thus when the RSS leadership strongly recommended that he rein Philip in, he was easily persuaded to comply. But he wanted to avoid offending Philip too, and decided to exercise great tact and wisdom.

“My son,” he called gently to Philip one day, “You say Jesus has healed you. I really don’t see anything wrong with that, but we’re facing a serious problem as a family. The RSS leadership is very upset that you’re preaching this Jesus to all the villages about. They have threatened to destroy us all if you don’t stop this activity. My own dignity and standing among the people are at stake. Let me suggest something. Why don’t you simply read your Bible at home, for my sake, don’t go to the different villages.”

Philip listened with head bowed respectfully. He felt a lump rising in his throat as the significance of his father’s words hit home. A titanic struggle was raging within his breast. He loved his family dearly. They were all so closely knit. It would be the greatest tragedy if anybody was hurt on account of what he was doing. He wanted so desperately to say, “Okay, Dad, I’ll do as you say.” And yet, how could he say it? Hadn’t he promised solemnly that he would proclaim the God who had healed him? But again, maybe Jesus would understand if he reneged this time. After all, it was too dangerous—not for himself, but for his beloved family. He would gladly suffer for the sake of Jesus, but why should his family face harm on his account?

Drawing aside the cosmic curtain, unseen and unsuspected by Philip and his father, one might have beheld a gripping scene, such as has been enacted innumerable times since Father Adam brought sin into the world, and arrested the attention of the unfallen universe. For a battle, as grim and terrible as any fought in the history of humankind, was in progress between the hosts of darkness and the legions of heaven. Back and forth the deadly conflict raged, depending on which direction Philip was leaning. Now the demonic forces under their evil commander appeared to succeed in engulfing him in doubt and despair. Now the white-clad angels of heaven thrust them back and restored peace and joy to his heart. Until at long last Philip made his final decision: He loved and respected his father, but he loved Jesus more. He would not disappoint his Saviour. Behind the invisible curtain one would now have seen the bright angels succeed in completely linking their arms about Philip, and heard a hallelujah song as the news of victory was transmitted across the expanse of the heavens from world to world.

Not wishing to hurt his father and appear rebellious, Philip made a noncommittal reply to the standoff. He knew deep in his heart that no human ties could ever stop him from carrying out the commission he had received form heaven. And in the days following he continued to slip out to the villages. Soon, however, the RSS got wind of his defiance and returned to ratchet up the pressure on is father.

The elder Jagadeesan was beside himself. What was he to do with Philip? He could not wish for a nicer son, but his activities were landing him in a heap of trouble. As he mused on what course to follow, a plan began to formulate in his mind. He would try one more time to appeal to Philip, and if he succeeded in stopping him from preaching, well, but if not, he would resort to a foolproof measure. This measure-of-last-resort, however, he could not divulge immediately.

The next time Philip was at home, his father again called him to himself. Then he did a most unbelievable, extraordinary thing—something in fact so rare in an Eastern patriarchal society as to be almost unheard of and probably to warrant newspaper headlines! He actually fell down on his knees and grasped Philip’s feet. “My beloved son,” He pleaded, “Have pity on your mother and me. Keep your religion to yourself, but please don’t go about preaching it. We will all perish at the hands of the RSS if you don’t listen.”

If Philip had a gargantuan struggle the first time, it was infinitely worse now. To see his dignified father humbling himself on the floor in such abject fashion was almost too much for him. He felt the lump rising in his throat again, his eyes misted over. He longed to relieve his father’s distress, but how could he do it without offending his God? If he could have looked with supernatural vision he would have noted the spiraling escalation in the conflict between the forces of good and evil over his soul. Reinforcements from both camps would have been seen rushing to aid their own sides. But Philip was riveted to the Rock, and nothing, not even his father’s agonized pleas, could shake him loose. The holy angels rejoiced at another victory.

Choked, but fighting to hold back his emotion, Philip bent over and picked his father off the floor. His hands were trembling. He tried to reassure his father that he would do all he could to preserve his honor and dignity, and to protect the family from harm. But he could not refrain from telling about his Savior who had showed such mercy to him.

The ensuing days were difficult for Philip, but his resolve was strong. Relying on divine help, he continued the preaching rounds of the villages. It was now that Father Jagadeesan decided the time had come to implement his measure-of-last-resort. He wished he didn’t have to do it, but his hand was being forced. More than mere human help was needed to change Philip’s mind. The cosmic contest was taking a decidedly more ominous turn.

A few days later, under the pretext of making a business trip, Mr. Jagadeesan left to visit the neighboring state of Kerala. He had heard of the mighty powers of the shamans (witch doctors) of that region. He intended enrolling the services of one of them to convince Philip of the error of his ways. After some haggling a price was agreed upon and Mr. Jagadeesan, with the shaman in tow, returned home. He chuckled to think of the surprised, perhaps frightened, look on Philip’s face when he would see their “guest.”

It was close to midday when the unlikely duo reached the village. The shaman lost no time in beckoning Philip to himself. The sooner he finished his job, the sooner he could collect his fees! Unloading his sack from his back, he proceeded to open it. The eyes of the onlookers nearly popped out of their heads as the articles of his trade were exposed. A human skull with empty eye sockets stared at them, grinning a hideous, toothy grin. An assortment of other human bones came to view too, as did a variety of animal horns, teeth, hair and nondescript body parts. A bottle containing a mysterious liquid added to the interesting mix. But the thing that caught the singular attention of Philip was a figurine approximately six inches tall. He could not recall ever seeing anything with such a horrible, malicious look on its face. He didn’t have to guess, he knew at once it was a representation of the Devil himself.

Drawing a circle about three feet in diameter, the shaman instructed Philip to sit cross-legged inside it near the top, while he arranged his charms in front. This done, he looked at Philip. “You have one last chance to decide that you will no longer preach Christianity,” he growled menacingly. “If you refuse, I will cast a spell on you and return you to your former crippled condition. Now make up your mind quickly.”

It was with some foreboding that Philip had watched his father come home in the company of the shaman. He felt his mouth go dry and his heart begin to race, but he gave no outward indication that he was afraid. He remembered his previous deliverances by One who was mightier than all the gods of the Hindus. Now sitting inside the sinister circle, facing the angry medicine man and his frightful charms, his response was to close his eyes. “O God,” he prayed silently, “You are the only true, living God. I am Your humble servant. This man is a fraud, a false prophet. He doesn’t know anything. Please come down and place Yourself between him and me.”

The shaman noted Philip’s response with scorn. But half afraid that he might cave in without the aid of his antics, he feigned impatience. He was anxious to demonstrate his invincible power so he could claim his reward. So without further ado, assuming correctly, that Philip’s silence was a refusal, he launched quickly into his carefully rehearsed routine. Renting the air with unintelligible incantations, he waved his arms in bizarre patterns with different objects in his hands by turn. The mysterious liquid he sprinkled over Philip and the charm on the floor. The family stood quietly around, keenly observing every detail of the proceedings, expecting any moment to see Philip’s hands and feet shrivel back into their previous withered condition. Philip remained statuesque.

For an hour the rigmarole continued unabated. But it was becoming apparent that something was not quite right. The shaman’s face was growing grimmer by the minute. Notwithstanding beads of sweat on his brow and running down his scraggly beard, his movements were becoming more energetic, the pitch of his voice more frenzied. It was clear he was doing his very best.

Another couple of hours dragged by with no hint that the gods were listening, much less acting. Now the shaman was beginning to show signs of tiring. He was not waving his arms as vigorously anymore. His voice was hoarse, body drenched in perspiration. The onlookers were growing restless. How long would this drama go on? Soon a new phenomenon became evident. The poor man began to break off in the middle of his chant to slap himself and scratch vigorously. Now it was his arms, now his belly, now his back and chest. A puzzled look came over him. Intermittently he began glancing around as if to make sure an escape route was still open. And now a nameless terror overwhelmed him. He stopped altogether.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Jagadeesan was anxious. He wasn’t going to pay him for nothing.

“I don’t know,” the man replied in shocked disbelief. “There’s something wrong here. This fellow has a superior power. My charms are all dead, and I can’t explain this itch. I think it’s time to quit. Don’t worry about paying me, just please don’t tell anybody what happened here. I need to save my business.” So saying, he hurriedly gathered up his paraphernalia, slung the bundle onto his back and unceremoniously bolted out the door. The angels had battled mightily for four hours.

Once again Father Jagadeesan fell on his knees. “O my son,” he spoke with emotion. ‘Your God is the true God. Please pray for us. We want to follow Him too.”

This dramatic story of the Christian God was noised far and wide, bringing him praise and glory.

And Philip’s standing as His especially favored one was confirmed in the minds of the populace. Many former Hindus today can trace the beginnings of their conversion to this time when the God of heaven signally honored the faith of His humble servant. Amen.

Children’s Story – Madison, God’s Beautiful Farm

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How it All Began

On a peaceful day in June 1904, Edward Alexander Sutherland and Ellen White, along with two of Mrs. White’s sons, boarded the steamboat Morning Star to travel down the Cumberland River. Their mission was twofold: (1) to find a suitable location for a training school for young black workers, and (2) to find a site for the training of the white young people in the area. The latter mission was led by Sutherland and his college friend Percy Magan.

As the steamboat neared the area of the Ferguson-Nelson farm, a site which had been considered for the training school, the boat’s machinery began to sound strange. Mrs. White noticed where they were and suggested that they go look the land over one more time, while the boat was repaired. Sutherland was not interested. He had seen the land before, and to him it held no promise. But when Mrs. White insisted he finally gave in.

As they approached the property, Mrs. White said that she recognized this as the place she had seen in vision for the training school. Amid the protests of both Sutherland and Magan, she urged them to purchase the place. The following day the two men hired a horse and buggy and drove out to the property. The two men surveyed the land. To them it looked like an unpromising rockpile. As they fell on their knees in prayer they felt courage pour into them. Never after did they doubt that the Lord was indeed leading them. Even though the price was much more than they had planned on spending, they put their faith in God and went forward.

Purchasing the School

The next step was to approach the Ferguson family for the purchase agreement and the contract. But from the start this was a struggle. The Ferguson’s, especially Mrs. Ferguson, were very much against northerners, Yankees, they called them. Percy Magan struggled and prayed with her and thought that he had finally made some headway, but a few hours later she was back to her stubborn attitude. Magan finally left, saying that he would be back until they got that farm.
In the meantime, Sutherland was in the north when he received a telegraph from Magan saying that the he had better come down because he was running into difficulty. Before Sutherland arrived Magan had another meeting with the Fergusons, and got a verbal agreement for the purchase, after a raise in price. With Mrs. White’s encouragement, they decided to pay the extra, and finally were able to get Mrs. Ferguson to sign the papers.

Starting the School

When the school began, the Ferguson’s refused to immediately give the plantation house over to the new residents. So those that came before the fall of the year had to live in barns and other outbuildings, in less than comfortable surroundings.

The servants’ quarters in the stable were dubbed ‘Probation Hall’. At one time or another almost everyone of the early faculty and students lived for a time in ‘Probation Hall’.

Their diet was very simple because their funds were so limited. They ate primarily cornpone, buttermilk, or milktoast, but few complained. They endured with cheerfulness.

Through all the hardships they grew to be a very close knit group—faculty and students. In the evenings they gathered in the parlor of the big plantation house to sit around the fireplace and discuss various topics. But throughout their conversations ran a consistent thread of dedication to the will of God.

By the spring of 1905 there were fifteen students, but the school was running low on funds. However the school never turned anyone down because they lacked the money to come. A number one principle at Madison was self-support. Each student was required to work to pay their tuition. The buildings which were erected for the school, were built by faculty and students.

The students followed a ‘One-Study’ plan of education. They devoted most of each day to one major subject. They students rotated through different lines of work until they received a well-rounded approach to many lines of work.

Through all the progress that the school had made there was a cloud hanging overhead. Sutherland was troubled that a sanitarium had still not been started.

The Sanitarium Work

Finally, one wonderful day, Sister White came to visit Madison. She and all the faculty were having a picnic when Sister White commented that the spot where they were would be wonderful for a sanitarium. She told them to step out in faith and mark the spot, which they did.

Before any of the sanitarium buildings could even be built, a businessman came from Nashville asking to be treated. The women protested that they had no facilities to treat him, but on his insistence they made makeshift quarters and agreed to treat him. As a result of their successful treatment of him, as well as their successful treatment of several smallpox cases, Madison Sanitarium gained a good reputation and soon it began to add substantially to the school’s income.

Progressing the Lord’s Work

One very important thing in Sutherland’s life was a vegetarian diet and he instituted one at Madison.

He wanted to create a health-food factory on campus as well. A health-food factory had been established not far from the school when it first began, but the factory was not at all successful. Now Sutherland was very impressed to purchase the machinery from the unused factory. The factory that he started on the campus greatly prospered providing one more avenue for the school’s support.

Several students who came to Madison went on to start small schools called ‘units’ in other areas of the south. Some of these schools still remain and prosper. Three students even went to Cuba and served there as missionaries for several years.

Over the next several years Madison continued to grow and prosper. The Lord blessed them with many workers. One in particular, Mrs. Lida Scott gave over a million dollars, as well as herself, to the work of the ‘units’ across the south.

In 1915 the death of Ellen White brought especial grief to the Sutherlands. They rested in the wonderful friendship they had shared with her, and the hope that they would soon meet again at Christ’s second coming.

Over the next eighteen years the school climbed to accreditation as a senior college. Madison’s influence spread far and wide. Their orchards and vineyards were flourishing on the land that had been considered hopeless, providing food to eat and can for the school.

In 1943 the school experienced the worst drought of anything since the school began. The faculty pled with the Lord and two days later the rain poured on the parched earth. They later found out that the rain was limited to the location right around the school. The rest of the surrounding area did not get relief for ten more days!

The Closing Years

In 1947 Percy Magan passed to his rest. Then in 1955 Edward A. Sutherland followed.
Madison continued as a model for many schools around the world but particularly in the south. And even though it was eventually forced to close its doors for lack of finances, Madison’s spirit lives on.

The End

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…

Children’s Story – Kant and the Robbers

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John Kant was Professor and Doctor of Divinity at Cracow. Kant was a pious man, with a spirit peculiarly gentle and guileless, and he at all times would have preferred to suffer injustice rather than exercise it. For many years he had conscientiously followed his duties as spiritual teacher of the place to which he had been appointed by God. His head was covered with the snow of age, when he was seized with an ardent desire to revisit the scenes of his youth in his native country, Silesia. The journey appeared fraught with peril to one at his advanced age; but he set his affairs in order, and started on his way, commending himself to the care of God. Kant rode slowly along, attired in his black robe, with long beard and hair, according to the fashion of the time. Then he pursued his way through the gloomy woods of Poland, which scarcely a sunbeam could pierce; but there was a light in his soul, for God’s Spirit irradiated it.

One evening, as he was thus journeying along, holding communion with God, and taking no heed of objects beside him, on reaching an opening in the thick forest, a tramping noise was suddenly heard, and he was instantly surrounded by figures, some on horseback and some on foot. Knives and swords glittered in the moonlight, and the pious man saw that he was at the mercy of a band of robbers. Scarcely conscious of what passed, he alighted from his horse, and offered his property to the gang. He gave them a purse filled with silver coins, unclasped the chain from his neck, took the gold lace from his cap, drew a ring from his finger and took from his pocket his book of prayer, which was clasped with silver. Not till he had yielded all he possessed, and seen his horse led away, did Kant intercede for his life.

“Have you given us all?” cried the robber, threateningly. “Have you any more money?”

In his alarm and terror, the trembling doctor answered that he had given them every coin in his possession; and on receiving this assurance, he was allowed to proceed on his journey.

Quickly he hastened onward, rejoicing at his escape, when suddenly his hand felt something hard in the hem of his robe. It was his gold, which,having been stiched within the lining of his dress, had thus escaped discovery. The good man, in his alarm, had forgotten the secret store. His heart, therefore, again beat with joy; for the money would bear him home to his friends and kindred; and he saw rest and shelter in prospect, instead of a long and painful wandering, with the necessity of begging his way. But his conscience was a peculiarly tender one, and he suddenly stopped to listen to its voice. It cried in disturbed tones: “Tell not a lie! Tell not a lie!” These words burned in his heart. Joy, kindred, home, were all forgotten. Some writers on moral philosophy have held that promises made under such circumstances are not binding, and few men certainly would have been troubled with such scruples on that occasion. But Kant did not stop to reason. He hastily retraced his steps, and entering into the midst of the robbers, who were still in the same place, said meekly:—

“I have told you what is not true; but it was unintentional—fear and anxiety confused me; therefore, pardon me.”

With these words, he held forth the glittering gold; but, to his surprise, not one of the robbers would take it! A strange feeling was at work in their hearts. They could not laugh at the pious man. “Thou shalt not steal,” said a voice within them. All were deeply moved. Then, as if seized by a sudden impulse, one went and brought back his purse; another restored the book of prayer; while still another led his horse toward him, and helped him to remount it. Then they unitedly entreated his blessing; and solemnly giving it, the good old man continued his way, lifting up his heart in gratitude to God, who brought him in safety to the end of his journey.

The End

Children’s Story – For Whom Did She Do It?

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Her name was Marie Copeland. “I’m sure I shall be the girl,” she said to herself. “There are more in my basket than in any other girls.”

“How do you get on, Marie?” asked the teacher.

“Oh, finely! I’m sure I shall get the money.”

“Oh, you mean the dollar toward the Indian scholarship?”

“Yes, you know we are all working hard for that, and Mr. Blake offered a dollar for it to the girl whose basket held the most berries in two hours.”

The teacher stood with his hands behind him and watched her a few moments.

“Are you working for the Indian boy or for yourself?” he asked. Marie looked up in surprise and indignation.

“Why, I thought I told you,” she said.

“Yes, you told me,” he answered quietly, and turned away to the other children.

“I told him,” said she, uneasily. “What could he mean?” and again she picked harder than ever. Her cheeks grew a little flushed as the moments went by, but her basket became more and more heavy until Mr. Blake announced the two hours up.

Marie stopped then and turned to join the group who were comparing baskets.

Just in front of her was lame Bessie—a little girl with a sweet, winsome, but just now dirty face. Marie did not like dirty faces.

“Do you think I’ll get it?” asked Bessie, holding up her basket to Marie.

Poor child! Her hands were scratched, her dress torn, her apron stained, but her blue eyes very sweet and honest, as she added: “I can’t generally give things, but I thought maybe I could this time.”

And there were about two dozen berries in her basket!

“Are you doing it for yourself or for the Indian boy?” Marie’s “mindears” heard this echo, although there was no sound.

“Oh, for the boy of course! What a question to ask!” Marie answered crossly, but her lips didn’t move.

“How happy it would make Bessie!”

“Now they are mine; I picked them my own self, and I think I might have the credit! It’s too mean for anything!” Marie’s lips did move this time. “Besides it wouldn’t be honest for Bessie; she didn’t pick them.”

“He said, to the girl whose basket held the most berries”—

“Well, I will not do it!” said Marie.

But she did do it. In less than five minutes the contents of her basket filled Bessie’s. “Oh, could you believe it?” cried Bessie, joy shining through the stains on her face. Marie made no answer, neither did she tell any one else. But the teacher who, with his hands still behind him, watched Bessie’s reception of the prize, turned to Marie and said: “You did it for the Indian boy, and God bless you!”

The End