The Wendy House

Over the years I have read several biographies of Hudson Taylor. The first one I read when I was about 8years old. Coming from  a  missionary minded family, many of the books and stories  I was exposed to from an early age were about Christian pioneers.  So I read about David Livingstone, Amy Carmichael, and William Carey. I read avidly and widely: but those missionary books gave me a taste for biography and history and I still maintain that fiction rarely improves upon real life for adventure, courage and surprise.

I have just finished a new biography of Hudson Taylor. He was born in 1832, before the age of steam, motors cars, telephones or even efficient sanitation. His father was a chemist, and also a preacher of the Gospel in the villages surrounding Barnsley in Yorkshire where the family lived. Hudson was mainly educated at home by his mother but eventually worked with his father in the chemist shop. He became a committed Christian at the age of fifteen, and began to nurture a desire to go to China and bring the Gospel to the Chinese.

From then on, everything he did was focussed on how he could best prepare himself for this task.  He lived as simply as he could, eating frugally, saving money, and seeking to toughen himself physically. He decided to study to be a medical doctor  because  that would help open doors and make contact with people. He also learnt to trust God for the necessities of life. Eventually he sailed for China on 19^th September 1853, on a sailing ship from Liverpool.

The ship was very nearly wrecked before it left the Irish sea, encountering violent storms, and emerged only to go through another ordeal in the Bay of Biscay. The whole voyage took nearly six months!

When he arrived  he met with other missionaries who had been working in Shanghai, but Hudson’s desire was to move further inland into uncharted territory. He encountered fear and suspicion from Chinese who had never seen an Englishman, and who called foreigners “white devils.” He found it was easier to be accepted if he wore traditional Chinese clothes and so he got rid of his English frock coat and trousers and took to wearing wide baggy pants and a long tunic.  He shaved the hair from the front of his head and grew the back hair long enough to plait into a pigtail or “queue”. He worked hard at becoming proficient in speaking in Chinese; and of course, this would mean adapting to the numerous dialects in different districts.

The Western settlements generally despised his efforts to become like the people he was seeking to reach and it caused a good deal of controversy. But as time went on it became obvious that his methods were fruitful, and they became the accepted practice with the missionaries who followed him.

Over the years , thousands did follow him. His wholehearted devotion to God and to the Chinese inspired men and women literally to lay down their lives in China. It is heart-breaking to read of those who endured the long voyage, knowing they were unlikely to see their families again; and then die within a few years or months of malaria, cholera, or in child birth. Hudson Taylor himself lost several children, and his beloved first wife, Maria, died after they had been married twelve years.

Hudson himself suffered physical pain from injuring his back after a fall on a boat, and frequent bouts of dysentery which left him weak. He endured misunderstanding,  and being the subject of vicious rumours. Stories circulated among the Chinese that the white Christians stole babies and ate them. Harder to bear were libellous reports from fellow missionaries accusing him of bad motives, and even immorality.

He returned to England after about seven years and, burdened about the massive task of evangelising the nation of China, was walking and praying one day on Brighton Beach. The outcome of that day was that the China Inland Mission was formed, and the next day, a bank account was opened in that name with £10.00!

What he achieved almost defies belief. He travelled incessantly as an itinerant preacher, later visiting mission stations which had been established all over the vast nation. Everything he did came out of prayer and was bathed in prayer. Famously, the mission he established, the CIM, never asked publicly for funds; they only asked the Heavenly Father, and proved Him to be a generous and faithful God.

Later, in the early 20^th century, there was great conflict and unrest in China and many missionaries were killed. Yet the work continued and churches not only stood firm but grew.

Although I have read the facts before, I was struck afresh while reading this new book with several things. One was the sheer hard work of this man and of those who worked with him. They never stopped sharing the Gospel, praying and teaching,  living and travelling under appalling conditions. Coupled with that, they were entirely selfless, always thinking of others, never indulging themselves, giving of their possessions, their time, their energies, their very lives! They were utterly devoted to Jesus: his love was what compelled them.

It has become fashionable to criticise what we now call “old style” missionaries.  Certainly, I am grateful for renewed understanding of the church, and the establishment of church communities, which does away with some of the dilemmas raised by “para church” missionary organisations. But I am in no doubt that these 19^th century missionaries were truly led by God, sustained by God, and  glorified God with their sacrificial lives.

Things are so different now. Our high view of marriage and family life would not lead us nowadays to separate ourselves from husbands or wives or children for long periods of time in order to make long journeys to inhospitable places to bring the Gospel. Also some of their views and methods would seem distastefully “colonial” in the present day. The globe has “shrunk” in the sense that however faraway we may go, in terms of time we can go virtually anywhere on the planet and be only days away from home. We can communicate by phone, email and skype; and even in the remotest places we can be in touch and receive help for medical emergencies far more quickly than they could.

Yes, the contexts have changed; the veneer of civilisation, culture and human progress has made life easier in many respects. I wouldn’t want to go back to the 19^th century! Yet I deeply admire those old style missionaries, and can’t help asking myself if I, in my generation, am as passionate and focussed as they were?

What courage! What self denial!  What obedience! What faith! What devotion to Jesus! Surely these will earn his “Well done, good and faithful servant!” They were like the heroes of Hebrews 11: “They went about destitute, persecuted and mistreated. The world was not worthy of them…Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders, and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race that is marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus.” (Heb 12: 1,2)

We have to run our race, in our day, in our culture. But He is worthy of no less devotion.

Wide, tree-lined streets; trams; high blocks of flats; expensive shops like Gucci, Ralph Lauren and Versace; little street cafes and the obligatory MacDonalds; gracious old buildings; vast paved squares and spacious parks, Berlin is a great city and I loved my brief experience of visiting it.

We were met at the airport, and taken to an impressively large, modern train station,   soon to disembark at another massive station with high domed glass ceilings and endless escalators. We went out onto a huge empty square and across a bridge over the river to a wide grassy space in front of the Reichstag, an impressive building where the German government meets.  Badly damaged by bombs in the war, the ornate front façade survives but is surmounted rather incongruously by a high glass dome; the juxtaposition of the old and new seemed rather uncomfortable to me.

We walked on and soon came to the famous Brandenburg Gate, standing at a commanding position at the conjunction of several wide avenues. It has become symbolic of the triumph of democracy since the fall of the infamous Berlin Wall in 1989, when it was the scene of euphoric celebration as the wall was torn down. We wandered around with other tourists taking the obligatory photos on both sides of the magnificent monument. But before we took the tram back to the hotel there was one more monument to see.

Just a block away from the Brandenburg Gate lies a strange and sombre sight: a great square filled with grey rectangular blocks of stone, identical in length and breadth, but not in height. They are symmetrically laid out on a sloping site, somewhat reminiscent of a graveyard, but no words or numbers are carved on them. They lie under the sky, mute and anonymous, some high, some low; and although the pathways between are are straight and regular in length, the floor is undulating. There are 2,711 of these blocks, and people wander around among them, gravely, thoughtfully, sadly. There is  silence apart from the background sounds of city traffic. The whole area is a monument to the thousands of Jews who were shipped by train from Berlin and destroyed in the concentration camps.

The site is an in-your-face confrontation, a shocking, unavoidable reminder of crime so horrific it seems unreal. We wandered about among the slabs, reassuring ourselves that it was a long time ago: it wouldn’t, couldn’t happen now! Then it dawns: it was only 65 years ago, just 2 generations, not that long ago! In fact, uncomfortably recent really.

So: could it happen again? The sad truth is that something like it is happening somewhere in the world all the time; not perhaps on such a horrendous scale, but just as coldbloodedly calculating and callous. For example, the attempts at ethnic cleansing in Serbia and Bosnia, the civil war between Hutus and Tutsis in Burundi, the systematic slaughter of innocents in Sierra Leone, the killing fields of Cambodia, and in Congo….the list goes on. And these have all been in the last 20 years or so. Do human beings never learn? It appears not. They do not educate themselves out of murderous hatred, fear and prejudice.

In a serious mood we climbed on board the tram and made our way to the flat rented by the courageous Nigel and Claire Dutton and family who have gone there to plant a church. Here we mixed with 40 or so people from all walks of life and several ethnic backgrounds. Here we worshipped Jesus together, listened to his word and prayed to him who is the only One who can change hearts and fill them with love and compassion.

“Many will come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord; he will teach us his ways so that we may walk in his paths…He will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many people…Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war any more.”  (Isaiah 2:3,4)

Here is Hope. Let your kingdom come, Lord!

Photograph by Otzberg

Sport is an obsession in Cape Town and they start early in life. My grandsons, Joshua and Ben, have rugby practice after school a couple of times a week, and often have a match on Saturdays too.

One afternoon I found myself alone with Ben while his brother and sister were elsewhere. Ben is cunning; he is nine years old, has melting brown eyes and a cheeky grin, and is very beguiling. “Shall we go for a walk in the park, Grandma?”

The walk in the park somehow evolved into him riding there on his bike while I trotted alongside innocently carrying a rugby ball. Most of the park is occupied by multiple rugby fields, cricket pitches and tennis courts. We reached one of the rugby pitches and Ben laid down his bike by the goal posts. “I’m going to practice goal kicks Grandma,” he announced. Now I understood the significance of the rubber thing I had been carrying. It was a cone which holds the egg shaped ball in place, preparatory to kicking it over the bar between the posts.

Ben began  practising his kicks while I ran about retrieving the ball and sending it back to him. Not too demanding, and good exercise! But then Ben decided we would vary it a bit by doing drop kicks. This is one of the more dramatic aspects of the game when the player running with the ball attempts a kick at goal on the run. It has an element of  spontaneity and when it comes of in a game it is very exciting! So we tried drop kicks for a while. Ben got more over than me, but I was quite good, considering.

However, Ben now decided we must progress to passing. The ball must be passed backwards, not forwards. So the player with the ball  runs forward with it, and passes it to a player slightly behind him. So my relentless coach had me zig-zagging up the field, throwing the ball behind to Ben then running around him and catching it as he threw it back to me.  Then as we approached the goal posts, Ben attempted to drop kick the ball over the bar. We did this a few times, and when Ben got it over he leapt about triumphantly. I was lying down.

“Come on Grandma, let’s do it again!”  he shouted to my figure lying prone and heaving on the grass.  “Give me a minute!” I gasped.  A minute was all I got. My coach waited impatiently while I hauled myself into a sitting position. “You’re just not fit Grandma!” he said severely. Meekly I got up and we repeated the process a few more times, but by the end, it was walking rather than running.

Fortunately, I never got initiated into the scrum; and when he mentioned I might learn to tackle, I hastily declined. “I’m bigger than you,” I explained kindly, “It wouldn’t be fair.” We staggered home, or rather he rode his bike and I staggered.

On Saturday, Ben was playing in a real match. The opposition was  strong and fast. At one point, one of their forwards came steaming down the wing with the ball. Ben, playing full back, streaked across and brought him down with a superb flying tackle. Oh joy! It was right by the line where I was standing, so I got a great view! Ben got up but before he got back into the game he turned and gave me  a beaming smile of pure happiness.

One for you, Grandma!

Well, I did it. Cue drum roll and trumpet fanfare. Third time lucky, I made it to the top of the Lion’s Head! That may not mean anything to a lot of people, but those who have visited Cape Town will appreciate my sense of triumph! The Lion’s Head is a spectacular peak on the west side of Table Mountain, 669 metres (2,200 ft) above sea level. It is roughly conical, and its top portion is composed of a precipitous wall of granite rising apparently vertically.

There is a path which winds around and up to a shoulder, about two thirds of the way up. I have made it as far as that twice before, but have been defeated by the last demanding and terrifying stretch. The climb to the summit is a scramble on hands and knees, pulling oneself up by the finger tips, inserting toes into crevices, and also involves a couple of iron ladders thoughtfully placed on the steepest bits.

It was Sunday afternoon. Terry and Steve were watching Manchester United playing Everton, and Anna and I decided to go for a walk. We thought a stroll along a beach would be pleasant, but as we drove over towards Camps Bay, we thought, “What about having another go at the Lion’s Head? Maybe today’s the day to crack it!” Conditions were ideal: a clear, warm sunny day with just enough of a gentle breeze to keep us cool.  So we set off on the path which winds round and up the spectacular rock, and gets steeper and more demanding the higher you go. The views were breathtaking.

Eventually we reached the plateau on the shoulder below the summit where I have got stuck twice before. By this time I was feeling all my (nearly) 66 years and was tempted to give up again. But I have a determined daughter. “Come on Mum, you can’t give up now!”

We started scrambling up the steep ridge. “Don’t look down! Just look at the rock in front!” She didn’t need to tell me twice. Pure unalloyed fear gripped me. I found also that I didn’t have the agility I once had and could not haul myself up. “It’s no good,” I lamented despairingly. “I just don’t have the strength.”

Just then, some people came up behind us, but went around to the right and moved on up. “Let’s follow them!” we decided. To our surprise, we found a better way, a more defined route, which although it involved hands and knees and some real climbing, was accessible. Much encouraged, we ascended, and twenty minutes later after much puffing and panting on my part, emerged at the top! We could see a full 360 degrees: across Table Bay itself, with Robben Island (where Mandela was imprisoned) lying in the shimmering water; then further west out over the Atlantic, down southwards to Cape Point where there is nothing but ocean between the tip of Africa and the South Pole, then sweeping round eastward to the Indian Ocean and the mountains of Somerset West until you face due north up the continent of Africa. It was a special moment standing there contemplating that amazing scenery.

We phoned our couch potato husbands and informed them of our location. Yup, they were surprised. The descent was quicker and easier, and we returned feeling sore and tired but triumphant.

Thinking about it afterwards, what did I learn? Why did I succeed this time?

Several things stood out. One was the power of encouragement. “Come on Mum, you can do this!” Another was following others who knew what they were doing; their confidence reassured us.

I also found that the instruction to keep focussed on the next step and not look around, (especially down!) was good advice. If you are distracted by other details, if looking down makes you dizzy, your strength seems to ebb away. I was also worried that I might make it to the top, but I wouldn’t be able to get down!

The main thing was to achieve the goal: get to the top!

We need goals, ambitions, challenges which draw out of us strength which we didn’t know we had. Paul the apostle said, “Forgetting what is behind, and straining to what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

As you get older, you inevitably slow down a bit, but you don’t have to stop.  It’s good to ask ourselves from time to time, “Am I still pressing on? Do I still have ambition for the kingdom of God?” Not only that, but is there someone I can encourage whose strength is flagging, who is in danger of giving up, who is in danger of being diverted? We are in this together; let’s encourage one another!

“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:30-31.

Spring is here, time to review the summer shoe collection! I love summer shoes, but at the same time I am apprehensive about putting my aging hooves on display. Each year my toes appear to be more bent and my bunions more prominent! I am always on a quest for shoes that are pretty and elegant, but not crippling to walk in. Consequently I have amassed quite a collection; I have shoes for different seasons, shoes for different climates, shoes to go with dresses and shoes to go with jeans and trousers.

I tip them out of the box: the black, the white, the heels, the flats, the wedges, the trainers. I sigh regretfully because I do not have beautiful feet!

In the Bible beautiful feet are not about shoes and footwear, but what they do: they run! They carry the heralds of Good News! “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who proclaim, “Your God reigns!”” (Isaiah 52:7)

There was a woman so bent over that her vision was confined to the ground. She couldn’t see whole people, only feet. For eighteen years she had been imprisoned by a condition which caused her body to be bent and rigidly locked. One day she shuffled to the synagogue. As she made her way painfully to the back behind the screen where the women sat, she heard a voice: “Woman!”

She knew in the depths of her being that he was calling her.  Slowly, embarrassed yet compelled, she stumbled forward into the midst.

“Woman you are set free!” Something unlocked in her heart. Years of grief, disappointment, rejection, fell off her. Who was speaking? She could only see his sandal-clad feet….dusty, calloused from walking miles over rough terrain. To her they were beautiful: they belonged to the bearer of Good News!

Then she felt his hands on her gnarled and twisted back. A current of energy, like  a wave of warm water flowed  over her, and the tight, fused vertebrae began to pop and loosen. Pain ebbed away, and she began to uncurl and straighten up. Amazed, she found herself standing tall, her stick on the floor. No longer was she looking at his feet; she looked into a face beaming at her with tenderness and delight.

Other standing around did not share her joy. Their backs were straight but their minds were crooked, and their perspective cramped and limited. They were indignant because healing had taken place on the Sabbath!

Jesus spoke again: “Should not this Daughter of Abraham  who has been bound up for 18 years be set free?”

He not only healed her body, he gave her dignity and identity.

He still comes to make the crooked straight: crooked bodies, distorted thinking, skewed perspectives, twisted attitudes.

One day we shall see those feet; they have been wounded, they have holes from nails driven through them. But to us who have received Good News, they are so beautiful. But we shall also look on his face, because he has made the crooked straight, and we can stand unashamed before him.

But some how, I think we shall also spend a lot of time prostrate at his feet.

Photograph by RenoTahoe

Daffodils! I love them. Bright patches of yellow that are like pools of sunshine, cheerful signs that spring is on the way! When I bury my nose in a bunch of them, I am transported back to the garden of my childhood home where they grew in the long grass under the apple trees.

Smells are so evocative. When I catch the fragrance of irises, I am standing in the corner of a classroom, a rebellious 7 yr old. I can’t remember the misdemeanour that banished me there, but I well remember the impotent fury in my heart as I stood cross and isolated for what seemed like hours, breathing in the potent aroma of chalk and wax crayons and the big vase of purple irises nearby.

Walking through airports, Terry and I always stop to have a squirt of expensive perfume in the duty free. We get on the plane smelling like millionaires, but can never remember which scent we really like, probably because we have tried too many and they are all mixed up.

Different places have distinctive smells too: the pine forest around the base of Table Mountain, the autumn woods  near Arundel in Sussex, the grassy downlands reeking of sheep and thyme, the coconut sun lotion of sundrenched beaches, and the strange and powerful mix of aromas that assail you as you arrive at Mumbai airport: dust, dirt and curry.

Amazing how the sense of smell enriches life! A certain furniture polish reminds me of my mother, cinnamon makes me think of America, and a whiff of a good red wine takes me to blissful days in the South of France or a vineyard in South Africa.

Of course there are bad smells too: BO, bad breath, dog poo, dirty nappies, fields spread with sileage….say no more! We know what we mean.

Paul the Apostle had the audacity to say that he was like a good smell. He said that when he and his friends arrived in town, it was like a subtle fragrance that made some people around say, “Ah! A lovely smell! It reminds me of Jesus!”  On the other hand, others felt repelled, because to them he smelt of the nauseating smell of death.

(2 Cor.2:14-16) How could he provoke such different reactions?

Often in the Old Testament  we read of “a pleasing aroma to the Lord,” and it is in the context of sacrifice. The smoke of the sacrificed animal wafted up to Heaven and pleased God. Why? A life laid down in worship, submitted to God, pleases him. Jesus taught that whoever loses his life shall find it, but whoever clings to his life shall ultimately lose it. He modelled this; so that Paul could write, “Be imitators of God, dear children, and live a life of love just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” (Eph.5:2)

It is true that to smell of Jesus is to smell of death: death to selfish desires, ambitions,  and appetites.  To choose to go through the narrow door is a kind of death, and not inviting to those who want to stay proud and independent. But to say “yes” to him, and in view of his mercy to offer ourselves as a living sacrifice holy and pleasing to him, is the way to life.

You want to small good? Die! Choose Life!

Photograph by freefotouk