XII OBSTACLES

To many minds there is great fascination in the thought of self-sacrifice. Separation from native land and loved ones, to spend one's life in a strange land, among uncivilized people savours of renunciation more than human. The high plane of spirituality, already attained, would be easily perpetuated.

Cut off from everything that had stood ready to prey upon one's weaknesses, those weaknesses would no longer have to be guarded against.

In a life devoted to ministering spiritual things to people who have as yet no spiritual conceptions there would be reflex blessings furnishing all the spiritual help one would need. In short, the missionary is looked upon as belonging to a peculiar order of beings, almost supernatural, dwelling in a sort of seventh heaven of immunity from difficulties against which the ordinary soul must contend.

In calling attention to certain hindrances, it is to guard against romantic notions. The depressing influence of life among a heathen people hangs over one like a cloud.

The natives are so sodden in vice, so wedded to their idols, so prejudiced against all foreign religions, so dull of head and slow of heart to understand and believe. At times it may seem to be all sowing and no reaping,—enough to dishearten the most faithful worker.

To "sit in the shade of a palm-tree, and break the bread of life to hands eagerly outstretched to receive it"—is not an every-day experience.

Sunday by Sunday the native Christians assemble in the chapel for worship. The new missionary joins them. Here he will not be distressed by the degradation of the heathen without. His heart will be glad as he sees these people, rescued from idolatry, worshipping the true God. He cannot understand what is said, but he can join in silent prayer. It is intensely interesting, for a few Sundays. But after a time these services, in which he is utterly unable to take other than a silent part, will be found inadequate to meet his spiritual need.

It will be two years or more, before the missionary can join in all parts of their worship. During this time he will often remember with deep longing the privilege of his own church in the far away home-land. In fact, worship with people of another race and tongue never quite meets one's spiritual requirements. Constant outflow, without corresponding inflow will run any pool dry. Then he will find himself so overwhelmed with work, perplexed by financial cares, hindered by innumerable interruptions that it will seem almost impossible to find time to put forth special effort by reading, meditation, and prayer, for the maintenance and upbuilding of his own spiritual life.

One's very zeal for the kingdom of Christ may dwarf one's fellowship with Christ. No matter how sound in theory, loyal in spirit, or vigorous in action, there will come periods of reaction, though not of discouragement. "Tired in, not of the work." The discouraged missionary is yet to be found. "He shall not fail, nor be discouraged—till He has set judgment in the earth." Often enough to keep him keyed up to his work he will be blessed with the privilege of witnessing that which never loses its fascinating interest,—the wonderful transformation of human souls, by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Other matters however interesting, are but side-lights; other experiences, however trying, are soon forgotten in the joy of seeing, and in a measure being instrumental in the advancement of Christ's kingdom.

With a heart warm with love for Christ; warm with love for souls; full of zeal for soul winning; the missionary is safe. But all these passions he must bring with him, rather than depending upon their being developed in and by service in a foreign land.

Dr. Judson, after nineteen years in Burma, writing to a foreign missionary association of young men said: "Beware of the greater reaction which will take place after you have acquired the language, and become fatigued and worn out with preaching the gospel to a disobedient and gainsaying people. You will sometimes long for a quiet retreat, where you can find a respite from the tug of toiling at native work,—the incessant, intolerable friction of the missionary grindstone. And Satan will sympathize with you in this matter, and he will present some chapel of ease, in which to officiate in your native tongue, some government situation, some professorship or editorship, some literary or scientific pursuit, some supernumerary translation, or, at some system of schools; anything, in a word, that will help you, without much surrender of character, to slip out of real missionary work.

"Such a temptation will form the crisis of your disease. If your spiritual constitution can sustain it, you recover; if not, you die."

Missionary views have undergone some change since Judson's time,—for instance,—"some system of schools" has come to be regarded as a necessary and fruitful part of missionary work. Moreover, instead of furnishing sweet release from the "friction of the missionary grindstone," in the school its rubs are hardest. The great temptation now is to abandon school work, to engage in "direct evangelistic work" exclusively.

But the principal remains the same. Talk about the hardships of pioneering; pioneering is a picnic as compared with the year-in-and-year-out routine of school work. In boarding-schools there is added to the all-day work the all-night anxiety concerning the moral welfare of the pupils. Sick or well, strong or weak and weary, the work is there, and must be accomplished. The dormitories are full of boys and girls, and constant care is the price of discipline.

Nearly every day some are on the sick list, and must be visited, and remedies administered under the missionary's own eye. In serious cases the missionary becomes the watcher. I have in mind an instance when the cholera broke out in a neighbouring mission school. The lady in charge of the school took several girls into her own house, nursed them day and night, in addition to her regular work, and brought them safely through the crisis. But at what a cost. A few days later a company of sorrow-stricken missionaries were gathered around her grave, with difficulty restraining their emotion to conduct the burial service.

A beloved sister had fallen, as truly a martyr as ever gave a life to the Master's service.

The climate of Burma is peculiarly trying.

Arriving in November, as most all newcomers do, everything is seen at its best. The rainy season has passed, leaving a placid smile on the face of nature. The nights are cool. Friends will see that the newcomer keeps in the shade from eleven o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon,—for a tropical sun can be depended on to do his duty at that time of day, the year round. As the season advances the nights become cooler, and towards morning a chilling fog sets in.

The preceding afternoon having been hot, one retires in a perspiration, every pore open, finally dropping off to sleep—without any covering, save his pajamas. With the coming of the fog there is a sudden drop in temperature, and one is fortunate if he does not wake up in a chill, and have the doctor for his first morning caller.

Persons with weak lungs find this the most trying season of the year. But this is the "cold season," and the time when missionary work out in the district must be vigorously pressed. Away through the Karen, Shan, Chin, and Kachin hills, missionaries push their way. In the plains other missionaries are doing their best to reach as many villages as possible before the "hot season" sets in. Work which ought to close early in March, if the missionary's health is considered, is often continued until April. But this is done at the expense of health, and shortens one's term of service. At least one month of the hot season must be spent at some mountain resort to escape the heat, secure needed rest, or for neglected literary work, if strength permits. It is not in the power of flesh to work on twelve months in the year, in the heated plains, without sacrificing strength that might be more wisely conserved.

After a serious illness, I spent a few weeks alone in a mountain camp, during my last hot season in Burma. Several great vultures kept me company by roosting in a tree close by, every night for a week.

My rapid improvement did not furnish an encouraging prospect, and they left. The fact that they had occupied the tree before I came to occupy the camp, did not make their presence much less suggestive.

By the middle of May the "Southwest monsoon" sets in. Then for five months it is rain, rain, rain. But though enough rain falls to inundate a country less amply provided with natural drainage, the awful heat continues. Clouds shut out the sun much of the time, but the steamy heat is exceedingly enervating. Clothing and bedding are clammy from the excessive dampness. Shoes taken off at night are mouldy in the morning. The unavoidable ruin of shelves of fresh new books from the home-land is enough to break one's heart, unless he has grace to take joyfully the spoiling of his goods. But as a merciful provision against allowing the mind to dwell on such misfortunes, the "prickly heat" (lichen tropicus) with which one's body is covered, will demand frequent attention. The rainfall varies in different parts of the country.

In Maulmain and Sandoway the annual rainfall is about two hundred and fifty inches. In Rangoon the precipitation is about two thirds of that amount. Mandalay is in the dry belt where the rainfall is very light, and irrigation is resorted to for cultivation. But still farther north, at Bhamo, the rainfall is heavy.

The every-day display of wild beasts, reptiles, and insect life is rather disappointing to the newcomer.

In the year 1902 only seventy-three people were reported as killed by wild beasts, and 1,123 by snakes and poisonous insects. But we find that 4,194 cattle were killed by tigers; 1,386 were killed by leopards; six by bears, twenty-eight by wolves, and 4,986 by snakes. More cattle were killed by snakes in Burma than in all the rest of India. Doubtless many such deaths in remote places, are not reported at all.

Under a certain Christian chapel when the ground was covered by a flood, an average of six centipedes were counted on each post.

Other localities are equally favoured, but they are scattered about, in piles of lumber, under old boxes, and wherever they can secrete themselves, now and then one appearing in a corner closet or crawling on the floor. On one occasion when about to take my family out for a walk two scorpions must first be dispatched.

They were found on the inside of our little boy's jacket, taken from a nail on the wall. Cobras and vipers sometimes find their way into houses,—but this happens more frequently in India than in Burma. These reptiles, though not often seen, are known to be about, so that some degree of caution is in order at all times. The general practice of elevating the house-floor several feet from the ground greatly lessens the number of these unwelcome visitors.

Not even the newcomer complains of a scarcity of the far-famed white ants. Should he fail to appreciate their numbers and powers, an experience similar to that recorded in "The Bishop's Conversion" will make him wish he had heeded the warnings of older residents.

Each queen is said to deposit about three million eggs a year. As they do their housekeeping and rear their antlets underground, a tropical sun making the hive a first-class incubator, the success of each colony is well assured. During the day myriads of other kinds of ants may be seen, but not a white ant shows his head.

Leave an old box on the ground over night, and in the morning thousands of these destructive insects will be found underneath, eating the bottom out of it. Some of the houses built by the early missionaries, who had not learned the likes and dislikes of the white ant, were destroyed in a few years. But a house made wholly of ant-proof timber does not insure one against their ravages. Under cover of the darkness they send out their spies. The house is searched from foundation to garret. They make careful note of the location of deal-boxes, book-shelves and other tempting articles, smack their lips, and return to give their report. The floor of nearly all residences is ten feet or more above the ground, the lower part being left unoccupied. The ants, directed by their engineers, select a post, and rapidly build a covered way, about the size of half a split lead-pencil, up its side. Sand, made sticky by glue from their mouths, is the material used. Reaching the floor the path is continued along a crack in the floor, finally coming out under or behind the article selected for destruction. Unless something wanted leads to their discovery, their work will go on until chest and contents are utterly ruined. Returning from a three weeks' absence, I found several of my choicest books riddled by these pests. In place of valuable marginal notes that could not be restored was a paste of sand. Such an experience is not, at first flush, conducive to spirituality. Rather it makes one sigh for a more expressive vocabulary, adapted to his profession. While superintending the work of demolishing an old mission house five heavy timbers fell all at once, on as many sides of me. These timbers appeared to be securely fastened, but white ants had eaten away the wood so that nails and bolts had no hold. The building had been condemned as unsafe over and over, but for want of other shelter had been occupied by a missionary family until the day before. It was little less than a miracle that the heavy roof had not crushed down over their heads.

The most dreaded diseases are cholera and fever.

In the first Burmese war seventy-two per cent. of the British troops died, only five per cent. being killed in action. After the annexation, railroad and steamship companies revolutionized transportation, substantial barracks and bungalows have taken the place of bamboo-and-thatch shanties, for the accommodations of Europeans. Improved sanitary arrangements in the towns have greatly decreased the mortality among natives. Compulsory vaccination is stamping out smallpox. Each large town has its hospital and civil surgeon. In six or eight different places medical missionaries are stationed.

Many improvements have been made since the time of Judson,—but the climate has not changed. As organized mission-work develops, the strain on the missionary increases. To the "care of all the churches" the mission schools have been added. Work enough for four falls upon one. Breakdowns are inevitable. Careful inquiry has established the fact that the average term of missionary service is considerably longer than that of Europeans in civil, military or mercantile pursuits, though the missionary lives by far the more strenuous life. If it is desirable that the missionary should render a long life of service, this extension of each term beyond the limit of his strength is very poor economy in the society which he represents. But in the majority of cases the mistake is made by the missionary himself. Body and soul he is wedded to his work. There never comes a time when he is not making some special effort, that he shrinks from entrusting to another,—for the advancement of the kingdom. If another is not available to take up the work he will almost die at his post rather than leave his people "as sheep having no shepherd." The remedy is in the hands of God's people in the home-land. Had he not learned to possess his soul in patience the missionary might feel disturbed by unfriendly criticisms directed against missionaries and their methods by that worldly-wise individual known as the "globe-trotter." Entertained at the missionary's home, and in much better style than the missionary can afford or indulges except on such occasions, he sits in the best room, and by the light of the only table lamp in the house dashes off an article on "Missionary Luxury." He travels three thousand miles, and visits fifty stations in three weeks, then goes home to pose as an authority on missionary methods, life in the tropics, etc. It is simply incredible what a variety of misconceptions one can pick up in three weeks in a strange land. Representatives from churches and societies in the home-land are gladly welcomed, if they purpose to remain long enough to form correct views of the situation. It takes the missionaries themselves at least two years to form such views.

Not long ago a noted Christian worker visited Burma. He was very earnest in his desire to see much in a little time, and yet get at the real heart of things. To further his desires two missionaries arranged a jungle trip, that the visitor might see the people in their native haunts. The last stage of the journey must be made by ox-cart. As they were loading up for the start he turned and said, "Now brethren, you know,—I want impressions." Then again, more emphatically as he stepped in front of the wheel to put a bundle on the cart—"You understand now,—I want impressions." The off-ox seemed to sympathize with him, for he gave him an impression then and there,—on the right knee-cap. Then another on the left knee-cap. In great pain the young enthusiast staggered to a log and sat down. Helped into the cart, he rode the rest of the journey. The lameness lasted him several days. Doubtless the memory of these first impressions will last much longer.

The visitor will learn more in three days of Burma fever than in an entire cool season. True, he will have sincere sympathy, and the best attention possible. But everybody knows that if true conceptions are to be gained, to be disseminated in the home-land, it is a good investment.

Visitors, like new missionaries, will not be guided by the advice of the more experienced. That disasters are not more frequent is largely due to the fact that Burma is visited when the climate is at its best.

An exception to the rule was the visit of a lady who had for many years been actively interested in foreign missions. Warnings as to the deadly effects of a tropical sun, and the danger of contracting fever from undue exposure had no influence. Repeated cautions that the head must be protected with the customary "sola tope" in place of the black straw hat were disregarded. Quinine, the universal and only effective remedy in first symptoms of malaria, was rejected. She was "not subject" to these things. In short, the missionaries were unnecessarily cautious in matters of health. Malaria changed to settled fever, and went beyond the power of the best medical skill and nursing to control.

This noble worker, who had served long and well here below, and might perhaps have served yet longer, went to a happier service above.

Notwithstanding the many disasters, experience still remains the only teacher whose voice commands attention.

To meet every obstacle and trying experience the consecrated worker girds up his loins, strong in the consciousness of the fact that he is an "Ambassador for Christ" the highest office in the gift of the King of Kings. His very obstacles may become stepping-stones to higher attainments.