L.M.
Montgomery wrote many short stories set in the idyllic province of Prince
Edward Island. In one of them, Felix
Moore, age twelve, is a gifted violinist being raised by his grandfather. This
grandfather, Mr. Leonard, is a minister, deeply devoted to the son of his only
daughter; however, he refuses to allow the boy to practice his gift, as it
reminds him of the boy’s vagabond father, a fiddler of popular tunes who had
stolen away the minister’s daughter and had broken her heart. Mr. Leonard fondly hopes that his grandson
will follow in his steps. Felix laments
to a sympathetic ear that, “Ministers are good things to be, but I’m afraid I
can’t be a minister.”
“Not a
pulpit minster. There’s different kinds of ministers, and each must talk to men
in his own tongue if he’s going to do ‘em any real good,” the friend replies.
Ms.
Montgomery wrote, “Mr. Leonard thought rightly that the highest work to which
any man could be called was a life of service to his fellows; but he made the
mistake of supposing the field of service much narrower than it is.” In a
terrible moment, the minister exacts a promise from his grandson that the boy
will never again touch a violin. The very soul of the child is his music, but
he makes the promise out of love and respect.
Ah, but
Naomi Clark is dying. Naomi Clark is “an awful, wicked woman” who has “lived a
life of shame” and “mocked and flouted” every effort of the minister to reclaim
her from “the way that takes hold on hell.” But, she is dying, and she wants
the preacher. Mr. Leonard does his duty.
“Can
you help me? . . . I was skeered I’d die before you got here – die and go to
hell. . . . I can’t go to God for help. Oh, I’m skeered of hell, but I’m skeereder
still of God. I’m sorry for living wicked. I was driven on by the fiends of
hell . . . but I was always sorry.” The woman’s voice is desperate. The minister offers to her that all she must
do is repent and God will forgive her; He is, after all, a God of love. Naomi,
though, will have none of those truths.
To her, God is “wrath and justice and punishment,” and though she fears
the outer darkness, she cannot let in His light.
The
minister, in great anguish of spirit, falls to his knees to pray for this sin-sick
soul. “O God, our Father! Help this
woman! Speak to her in a tongue which
she can understand.” Naomi falls back on her deathbed in a spasm.
*****
My
daughter and I were biking to her Tae Kwon Do class the other night when we
passed a demonstration at the main intersection in our neighborhood. Some church’s adherents were at every corner
with signs proclaiming the Lordship of Jesus and the need of repentance. This is an unusual sight in the Northwest in
general, and our neighborhood in particular; however, I always admire those who
put their convictions on the line and subject themselves to ridicule, violence,
and indifference. I mentioned the sight
to my friend, Shirley, while our daughters took their class together. She whispered thoughtfully, “Do you think
that sort of thing ever really works
to bring someone to God?”
“Well,
I don’t think it would have worked for me.
But,” and I paused a moment to choose my words carefully, “If it works
to save just one soul . . . if it is that little nudge of consideration that
starts one person onto the path of reconciliation and redemption, then it must
be worth it.”
I was
reflecting upon this shortly afterward when we read over the second chapter of
Acts in our family Bible study. The
apostles began to speak in tongues – known languages of the many nations of
pilgrims in Jerusalem. The people, of
course, marveled at this wondrous thing in those days before Rosetta Stone and
asked, “How is it that we hear, each in our own language in which we were born?”
Acts tells us that the apostles spoke “the wonderful works of God” in a way
that left the people amazed and perplexed.
Are we, too, not left amazed and perplexed when we first hear the truth
of God spoken in a way that moves our hearts toward Him, filled with awe that
He would speak to us in our own tongue?
Ever
since I became a Christian, in all my thousands of prayers lifted to the
heavens, there has been one constant one: that God would use me in some way to
help bring at least one sinner to His salvation. Just one.
And, who knows? Maybe He has. In teaching Sunday School, my great hope is
that when one of my little Kindergartners is someday at that crossroads between
the narrow way and the wide one, he might just remember his Sunday School
teacher who long ago showed him Jesus’ love in a real way, and that memory will
help him choose to seek the Holy One.
Some
people have a natural gift for walking unbelievers through every step toward a
belief that culminates in complete and true redemption; how I admire those
people. That was not how I was saved. The final work of my salvation was done very
privately through God’s Holy Word and a heart long-prepared. You see, when I
look back upon my life, to those days when I walked in foolishness and pride, I
remember those who planted the seeds of faith.
My soil was not yet ready to bring forth harvest; but, I had faithful
sowers who showed me God’s love in real ways. Three, in particular, come to
mind: Robin Stapleton, Carolyn Pon, and Juan Barba. I write their names as a benediction; they
put the goodness of His Word into my life when I was a feckless, shallow
teen. They spoke to me in my own tongue,
though not one of them knew it at the time. I can hardly wait to tell them when
we meet again in the Kingdom.
*****
Back to
Naomi: Felix appears at the door, worried about his grandfather’s long absence
in the raging seaside storm. Naomi, in a last burst of consciousness, asks
Felix to play her something on her old fiddle, needing music at her final
moments, because “there was always something in it for me I never found
anywhere else.” Felix looks at his grandfather, who nods an ashamed assent. So,
Felix plays for the dying woman. The tune winds its way from mirthful innocence
to rapturous love to agonized despair to indescribable evil. Then, the tune
changes again to a tortured repentance and rests at last upon “infinite
forgiveness and all-comprehending love.” And Naomi whispers, “I understand now
. . . God is a God of love . . . He sent you here tonight, boy to tell it to me
in a way I could feel it.” By daybreak, she is dead, but no longer lost,
because she has heard God’s truth in her own tongue.
