The searing heat burned Robbie’s bare back as he crouched upon the hospital’s roof. His hand clasped a hammer, while several nails were clenched between his teeth.
After several days of inactivity and relative confinement, he had finally managed to convince Wallace that his strength had returned sufficiently to lend a hand with some project around the place. But he had hardly anticipated this! Nor how taxing it would be to his system. But he would not flinch, even in the face of exhaustion.
Wallace had set him about the most pressing task at hand. With the rainy season almost upon them, every roof in the compound required immediate attention. From the makeshift patches that had been attempted in so many places, Robbie guessed that buckets had been in constant use the previous year.
This was now the third day of the job. The Vicar had joined in yesterday, and, with him now cutting shingles on the ground, while Robbie installed them above, they were attempting, section by section, to give the hospital building substantially a new roof. They were nearly finished, and Robbie was thankful that at least they were able to use wooden shingles instead of the stone materials used on most of the other village dwellings.
Robbie’s path had not frequently crossed the doctor’s the past few days, for which he was also thankful. Wallace was up every morning before dawn and spent much of his time during the day away from the compound. He did hold a clinic at the hospital twice a week, during which he saw a steady stream of villagers—the mission served some five thousand people in the surrounding area. And if only seventy-five attended church services, the rest made up for their absence on Sunday by coming in droves to avail themselves of the medical facilities. What Wallace did during the remainder of his time, Robbie could only guess.
Coombs usually accompanied Wallace, and Miss Trumbull kept mostly to her school. It was the women Robbie and Elliot saw most and they usually lunched with the three of them.
Robbie pounded in the last of his nails, straightened his back, and called down to Drew that he needed more supplies. But Elliot was behind in his cutting and had no more shingles ready. Robbie therefore descended the ladder, grabbed his shirt from the rail where he had tossed it, and, wiping it across his sweaty brow, strode over to where Elliot was furiously sawing a new length of wood before he could split the shingles.
“You’re going to kill yourself in this heat at that pace, Vicar!” said Robbie.
“No doubt I’ll die of thirst first. How much longer do you intend to keep us in this workhouse of righteousness?”
“I’m still trying to decide just what to do,” replied Robbie. “But I doubt you’ll go thirsty with all this water around.”
“Water was not exactly what I had in mind. Now that we’re not onboard the Tiger, surely you would have no objections.”
Robbie chuckled. “I doubt you’ll find so much as an ounce of sacramental wine around here.”
“I know,” was Drew’s dour reply. “Imagine a good Scotsman stumbling into such a teetotaling nightmare?” As he spoke his arm slowed noticeably.
“Here, let me have a go at it,” said Robbie, stepping up, taking the saw, and nudging the Vicar aside. Elliot conceded without an argument, dragged his exhausted frame to a nearby shade tree, and dropped down against its trunk.
Just as Robbie set his foot to the framing board in which the log rested in order to brace it against the action of the saw, Hsi-chen approached slowly from the house. Though the heat had obviously affected her too, and her skin was abnormally pale, she yet moved with an unaffected grace. Her movements were never hurried, yet there was purpose in her steps. When she smiled, Robbie found himself smiling in return, glad to see her as a respite in his work.
He had by now had two brief encounters with villagers, and the Chinese-Occidental barriers were very much evident, in more ways than language alone. But Hsi-chen spoke and laughed with him in an easy manner. Undoubtedly under Wallace’s hand she had been well educated in Western ways. Although she still retained an Oriental charm, the cultural distinctions were not nearly so strong as he had seen in the villagers, nor even her mother Shan-fei.
“I have brought you some refreshment,” she said, and now Robbie realized she was carrying a tray, which he had not noticed as she approached. “Goat’s milk is not a luxury,” she went on, “but it is cool and will quench your thirst.”
“Ah, just what we were wanting,” said Robbie, with a mischievous wink in Elliot’s direction. “That was thoughtful of you,” he added more seriously.
“You have worked hard—well beyond any debt you might owe us. I see the hospital roof is nearly completed.”
“It should be before day’s end,” answered Robbie. “Then we’ll begin on the residence.”
“I think my father will prefer the church receive the next repairs.”
“The living quarters get far more use. I haven’t seen a soul enter the chapel building since I’ve been here.”
“I know it does not sound logical, Mr. Taggart, but you see, we are here to serve the villagers. God has called all of us, especially my father and his colleagues, to meet the needs of the Chinese, sacrificing our own comforts to do so. How could we teach them to worship our God in a broken-down building while we ourselves lived in comfort?”
Robbie thought that even with a sound roof, the mission’s living quarters could hardly be considered comfortable by any stretch. But when he spoke again, his tone was diplomatic.
“I thought such exterior signs did not matter to God.”
“Perhaps not. Indeed, He cares more for what goes on inside them than for the exterior repair of our buildings, just as He is more concerned for the condition of our hearts than the look of our physical bodies. But the Chinese are less understanding. They look at the mission and say, ‘See the foreigners! They live in such splendor while the house of their God is in shambles. Their God must not be worth much to them.’ Besides, my father could not tolerate sitting in a dry house while his congregation stood in puddles.”
She paused and smiled at the thought. “So you see, Mr. Taggart, it would be best for the church to be your next project. But you must ask my father.”
Robbie merely nodded, wondering again about the man who put such stock in his religious notions.
“I think perhaps my father disturbs you, Mr. Taggart.”
Robbie was taken by surprise, first by the girl’s insight and then by her boldness to voice it. Hsi-chen gave a soft, subdued chuckle at his reaction. Then she motioned toward the shade tree to which Elliot had returned and under which he was now sound asleep. “Would you care to sit in the shade and finish your drink?” she asked.
Robbie nodded, and they strolled to the tree, seating themselves on the grass in as cool a spot as could be found.
Robbie took a drink of his milk, then tried to respond to Hsi-chen’s comment. “I think we—that is, your father and I—are from two different worlds. I doubt that we would ever find much mutual ground. He thinks I am a heathen, and I think he is . . . well, somewhat fanatical in his approach. Mind you, I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I am deeply indebted to him and I sense that he is a good man who means well. But I guess we just have different ideas about life and of how to approach things.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that my father would not take offense at being called a fanatic?” asked Hsi-chen. “In fact, he would probably count it high praise to be considered thus where his God is concerned. What is so wrong with giving your all in a worthy cause, even in a cause worth dying for?”
“All fanatics think their causes are worthy,” rejoined Robbie, “to the exclusion of all else. They have no tolerance for other ideas. They think everyone ought to conform to their way of thinking.”
“Without such zealots as my father, China would still be in darkness, untouched by the quickening Word of God.”
“But China was a grand and glorious civilization,” argued Robbie, “when your father’s ancestors were still carrying clubs and wearing animal skins. What right have we from the West to impose our ideas on them? I should think you, as Chinese, would be able to see the value and achievement of your native culture.”
“I love my country, and its culture,” answered Hsi-chen quietly, yet as she spoke her dark, almond-shaped eyes danced, for she was excited with the stimulating turn of the conversation. “Culture is not the issue here, Mr. Taggart. There are those who come to China in the name of Christ who do make it so, and it is most unfortunate. But no matter how civilized or uncivilized a people are, however noble or good, every man has an emptiness that must be filled by Christ. The question is not culture, but truth. Truth has no cultural boundaries. Those who make culture the substance of their Christianity, and try to convert my people not only to Christ but also to Western ways, they are wrong. Yet the truth of the gospel, the truth that Jesus Christ came to earth to proclaim, is universal and is a truth for all peoples of the world. And there are things in our culture that directly oppose the ways of God, which deny that truth and that gospel, and that therefore we as Chinese must yield if we are to be conformed to the image of Christ.”
“Ancestor worship?” suggested Robbie.
“Fealty and reverence toward ancestors is a noble attribute,” answered Hsi-chen. “It is intrinsically wrapped up in who we Chinese are, and in our underlying philosophy of life. No wonder that when its foundations are so shaken by this ‘new’ Way, whose God alone is worthy of worship, it should cause such furor. I have often pondered this—that Christ should require the laying down of the most elemental facet of Chinese life.”
“Then it is a cultural battle.”
“I still do not think so. Honoring one’s father and mother is the fifth commandment—God’s own law requires it. Yet the act has been taken by my people and used as a substitute for real worship of the true God. I think the Lord would say, ‘Revere your ancestors. It is good to hold them in high honor and esteem. But reserve your worship for the Creator of all ancestors, all parents, all families, all peoples of the earth!’ It is too bad that this issue has brought such conflict and caused God’s messengers in China to appear unyielding and intolerant. What God requires would never destroy a society, but would in fact make it stronger. I could not love God so much if I thought it could. Placing the true God at the center of a society would only strengthen it and make it even more beautiful.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” said Robbie, amazed at this young woman’s insight. “But the Chinese are a religious people. Who’s to say Christianity should be imposed on them by outsiders? What about Buddhism or Taoism? How can people like your father make a judgment that the religions of all the rest of the world are wrong and only the Christianity of the West is the truth. It still sounds to me like a position founded in Western egotism.”
“You forget, Mr. Taggart, that Christianity is not a ‘Western’ religion at all. Jesus was born in the Middle East. Christianity has its roots as much in the East as it does in the West. However, that is not the point. What matters, again, is truth. If Christianity is true, then does not that truth affect all mankind? My father would not necessarily say that all the other religions of the world are wrong in every way. He would simply say that they are not complete. Many peoples of many times have sought after God. And therefore many religions exist which reflect these yearnings of man’s heart after the Infinite. But Jesus came directly from God, as God’s Son, to show all men the full truth. Jesus is the fullest revelation of God. Therefore, once the truth about Jesus is known, all other religions become obsolete. They are partial revelations, containing some truth, but also error at many points. Only in Christianity is the fullness of God’s truth made known.”
“You present your argument like a seasoned graduate of the Cambridge School of Divinity!” said Robbie.
Hsi-chen laughed at Robbie’s amusing comparison, but also at her own zeal in the direction the conversation had taken. “Now you must think we are all fanatics! But maybe that isn’t so bad.”
“No . . . perhaps it isn’t,” he said, smiling. “I may have been making a harsh judgment.”
“There is one more thing I must say; then you may decide about your judgment.”
Robbie’s brow took on a puzzled look at her words, listening intently as she continued.
“We have spoken of the place of God in cultures and societies, and I am certain these are of great concern to Him. But it is the individual that is God’s greatest concern, His greatest love. Jesus died not for cultures, but for each individual person—for you, Mr. Taggart, and for me, not Occidental or Oriental. For your sleeping friend there, for the people of this village, for all your friends and loved ones back home—for everyone! That is what God’s love means. That is the gospel! That is the message of Christianity—it is why so many have sacrificed so much to come here to China.”
Robbie looked away and said nothing. For the first time he felt uncomfortable with this girl in whom he had supposed he’d found a kind of ally. It was one thing to debate theological issues, but quite another to be confronted personally. Unconsciously he cooled toward her, not realizing that even his arguments about Western incursions into Chinese culture had been a mere defense, a way of keeping the heart of the conversation at arm’s length.
He drained off the remainder of his milk with a finality that said more than merely that their conversation was over. He set the cup on the empty tray and rose from the cool spot. He found himself perturbed, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed more at her or at himself. He was saved from having to ponder this further, however, and from having to make an awkward parting.
At that moment a Chinese man, middle-aged but running with the vigor of a youth, hurried into the compound.
“Tai-fu!” he shouted. “Ma-shang! Ma-shang!”
Hsi-chen sprang quickly to her feet and ran toward the obviously distraught man. There followed a lively exchange in Chinese; then Hsi-chen turned to Robbie.
“Chang Hsu-yu needs my father,” she said. “His wife . . . is ill.” She hesitated over the words, a look of apprehension in her eyes. “I must see what I can do until he returns.”
“What can I do?”
She appeared both relieved and hesitant at his words. “I—I don’t know—” she began, but seemed not to know what course to take.
“I’ll go with you,” said Robbie. He sensed trouble, though he could hardly imagine any danger present in the village he had thus far observed.
Hsi-chen consented, and while she gathered a few things from the dispensary, Robbie informed Elliot of their plans. Then they hurried away after the frenzied villager.