“Grandma Lazarus”

By Esther Wang

My years of study at Trinity Evangelical Dinivity School had not been easy. The world famous educator, Dr. Ward, quite often declared, that he aimed at training "scientific" Christian educators, authors and researchers. Our literary composition must be objective; first-person addresses were never permitted, so as to annihilate the taint of subjectivism. Only when subjectivism is eliminated will literary compositions be objective, disciplined and scientific. Once we were required to select a project that would relate to each student's future ministry areas. This was to exercise our scientific research abilities as future Christian educators. We were to utilize advanced electronic technologies in the world such as CD ROM and Internet Online, to search for information as we conducted research on our individual topics. Of course, no first-person "I's" were allowed in the paper.

My chosen topic was "Faith and Suffering." I intended to explore the relationship between faith and suffering from the aspects of theology, philosophy and psychology. But I am not a born "scientific" researcher. As I faced the insurmountable amount of data produced from my input of the indicator "suffering" into the computer, with German, Hebrew and Greek intermixed in the English text, my mind would start wandering to the land far far away.

I remember that gloomy and cloudy morning when I was in my early teens. That early Spring morning I was just returning home from my aunt's in another province. The whole little town was in dead, cold silence; not a soul was seen on the long and narrow street. And yet covering all the street walls were mammoth posters denouncing my Father. The big black brush traced out Father's name upside down on a big white sheet, with a crimson red "X" over it. Although I was used to the reality of persecution suffered by Mom and Dad, I felt fear again-being persecuted was too heavy a burden for the heart of a child.

Skies became darker; thunder was heard roaring from afar, the wind began to blow. At the end of the long narrow street, it looked vaguely like a figure of an old bag lady; otherwise, there was no sign of life in this little town.

Father, a well-known Doctor in this town, now had been beaten, laid up in bed at home; his ribcage on the right side was broken this time. Mom and Dad were not local folks, but had settled here for many years. Because of Father's high medical skill and his testimonies as a Christian, he had a high reputation among the townspeople. When they heard that Father was beaten so badly that he had to lie in bed with broken ribs, the ordinary citizens and peasants of this small town who did not care about political persecution came to comfort him by the droves. The "Revolutionaries" had to put up a rectangular desk at our front door to block visitors. Two men wearing shoulder bands of "Red Medical Commune" stood guard. They would yell at anyone coming near, "What is your class category? What are you doing here?" Then they would denounce Father as an "anti-revolutionary" and "an imperialist spy disguised with a religious cloak." They would force the people to turn away and separate themselves from this "Anti-revolutionary." Most people would mumble something and turn quickly away. Who dared offend these "Revolutionaries" supported by Mao? But only a few young and strong hot-heads yelled back, "I am a poor peasant from three generations back. What can you guys do to me?"

That afternoon, the front door was slightly pushed open, an old lady with a basket hanging on her arm crept in. She appeared ordinary, wearing a dark blue old-fashioned coat full of patches; her back was slightly arched, slowly and quietly she staggered into this house that was severely under surveillance. (I wondered how she came in?) She asked about Father's health, and comforted him, "Doctor, please stand firm. Don't lose heart, be at peace!" Father repeatedly affirmed, "That's right, that's right." Then the old lady turned to look at me, hesitated for a second, turned back to Father and said in a low but clear voice, "Doctor, remember Isaiah 53? 'He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth...' Are these words not prophesying about Jesus?"

Father was immediately full of joy. He responded with a low but firm voice, "Yes, it is speaking of Jesus. 'He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed ...."

The old woman lowered her voice once again and comforted Father, "Doctor, Jesus is with us ... Let us keep praying and keep our hope in Him!"

The old woman's visit was not long. After her hurried departure, I asked Father, "Who is she?" Father replied, "She is the Lazarus of our town!"

"What is Lazarus?" I did not understand.

"Lazarus is a Biblical character. He was a beggar who was full of boils in his body; he suffered much on earth, but entered heaven after his death ..."

Then I recalled the morning scene. It was her, an old bag lady; when dark clouds were all over, and thunders were drumming, it was her erect body, standing at the end of the long street.
 

That night Father quietly prayed after midnight; his voice was once again filled with yearning for and thanksgiving to the Lord. He firmly trusted that the Lord Jesus was with us in our sufferings; he especially gave thanks for the Lord Jesus' gift of "wonderful fellowship in Christ." I did not understand what "fellowship in Christ" meant at that time.

The Chinese Church's Career Fellowship in a Midwestern City in America has the following announcement: "Career Fellowship will meet for dinner at the luxurious Furama Restaurant in Chinatown at 5 p.m. this Saturday. Please come and enjoy the fellowship and the love feast together."

The word "fellowship" is defined in the Evangelical Dictionary of Theology as: the word originates from the Greek word koinonia, has the meaning of "participation" in English (Elwell). The sense of sharing and self-sacrifice that is inherent in the word is clearly evident in those references to financial support in the early church as Koinonia. The Biblical concept of "fellowship" indicates that the true believer has fellowship in or participates in the suffering of Christ, (Phil. 3:10, 1 Peter 4:13) the sufferings of apostles, (2 Cor. 1:7) and the sufferings of his fellow men (Heb. 10:33).

The German theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945) discovered that the whole life of Christ is summed up by the word "suffering." The church is but "Christ existing as community." Because Christ is revealed in suffering, the church should share in the sufferings of Christ.
 

I picked up bits and pieces of her story later from my parents. She was an old lonesome widow, having been through much in her life. As the poorest person among the poor in town, she was so humble that she did not even have a name for herself; so humble that no one was even aware of her existence. If people chanced to mention her, they would call her "that old woman of the New Street."

And yet it was her, when days were filled with madness and terror, she calmly, fearlessly, even stubbornly expressed her faith. When Jiang Qing (wife of Mao Zedong) proudly announced to foreign correspondents that "there are no religions in China," she was the one preaching "the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; you must all repent." Her feeble yet firm voice was heard amidst the uproar of idolatrous shoutings such as "Long Live and Long long live Chairman Mao!" Grandma Dong, another poor lady in town, who heard her preaching the gospel in the midst of "no religions in China," was saved and born again before she peacefully went to be with the lord.

I remembered later, since I grew up, I started to get involved with "Father's affairs." I remembered it was in a lunar December when people were preparing for a "Revolutionary Spring Festival," Father told me to visit her to bring her some food for the Lunar New Year's. She lived in a broken-down shed in the southeast corner of a large compound. To be more accurate, it was only a shabby hut that was unable to withstand the wind and rain. The roof was about to cave in; the windows were crooked. To my amazement, though this was during the lunar December, on her door was hanging a bamboo curtain, which was used in summer to keep out flies. I called out, "Grandma!" lifted the curtain and went in. I saw the secret behind the bamboo curtain.

She was using a coarsely made stool as her desk, sitting on an even shorter stool. Using the natural light that came in through the door, she was reading a large black book with gold letters up and down, "Complete Old and New Testament." If the door was closed, the whole room would be pitch dark. The double purpose of the bamboo curtain was to allow daylight to enter, and to prevent anyone seeing from outside. The tiny room was simply furnished: an old kerosene lantern stood on the only rickety table. This was the 1970's, when electric wires went over her roof to every other house; she could only use the kerosene lamp for light.

She was joyfully surprised to see me. "It's you, little girl!" She tried to find a seat for me. Hurriedly she fetched the only bowl in her house, bringing me some water to drink. I sat down to chat with her. I did not ask her "testimonies;" I was not mature enough to ask; but I did ask many questions about her life.

She was born in 1900. She became an orphan at age four and grew up in an orphanage managed by missionaries in Tengxian, Shandong Province. When she became an adult, the orphanage arranged a marriage for her. They never had children. Her husband "died of starvation in 1958," she said very calmly, "He had a big appetite and never could get enough. So he died of starvation. I could not afford a coffin. We wrapped him up in a bamboo mat and buried him." Her face was calm and at peace as she told the story. I was amazed at her narrative, as if her husband's death was simply due to "having a big appetite." She had no complaints or anger about the cause of her husband's death.

She possessed nothing in this world, no loved ones, no material possessions. She was getting too old and had too little strength to work. Five Chinese dollars a month from public welfare was for all her living expenses. Besides that, she would go out everyday, pick up junk paper and stuff to sell for a few coins to help with her living.

I never knew her name. I just called her "Grandma." In my heart, she is forever "Grandma Lazarus." She never asked my name either; she just called me "little girl" according to the local custom. If my sisters were present, she would call me "the second little girl" to distinguish me from "the first" and "the third" (my older and younger sisters) respectively.

At the orphanage, she studied the Bible, learned to read Chinese and was trained on knitting and needle work. She said her vocabulary was limited; she could only recognize words in the Bible. I had seen two crumpled pieces of paper alongside her Bible; they were obviously ripped out of unused pages in an elementary school student's exercise notebook. I could see the neat characters she had written, filling the pieces of paper, each character filling a square: "I believe I believe Jesus Christ was born of the virgin Mary Son of God I believe Jesus died on the cross to save the world and after three days was raised from the dead ascended to heaven I believe we all sin and will be forgiven only by believing in Jesus..."

As I read the paper filled with repetitions of "I believe," I couldn't help but lift up my head to look at her. I saw firm faith and undisturbed serenity behind her peaceful face. I realized why she had no trace of complaints about her own miserable life.

A present-day theologian, Dr. Alister McGrath, pointed out as he summarized Martin Luther's views of faith and experience: "Faith is an ability to see God's presence and activity in the world, and in our own experience. Faith sees behind external appearances and the misleading impressions of experience. It is an openness, a willingness, to find God where he has promised to be, even when experience suggests that he is not there. Luther uses the phrase "the darkness of faith" to make this point. This has important results for Luther's understanding of the nature of doubt. Doubt shows up our natural tendency to base our judgments upon experience, rather than faith. When faith and experience seem to be out of step with each other, we tend to trust our experience, rather than faith" (McGrath).
 

In late years every time I returned to Father's town during the 70s and 80s, I would go to visit her. Just about every time I saw her, she was reading the Bible. I thus stepped into her "Bible study class." I gradually understood that the strength of her faith originated from this great and amazing book called The Bible. The Bible to her was not only a book of instructions, teaching her how to live each day, but also a great book of prophecies concerning human destiny. She would never be surprised at the disasters around her: the madness and turmoil of the Cultural Revolution, "brother betraying brother to death, and a father his child" (Mark 13:12) caused by the cruelty of "the class struggle," the horrific rumor and propaganda of "war-and-famine," the unprecedented earthquake of Tangshan City (in Hebei Province in July of 1976); and the suffering caused by the imposition of the only-one-child policy...all these sufferings of the Chinese people, of Chinese Christians, and especially of herself that had been endured were nothing but historic events from God's sovereign plans; they all have been prophesied in the Bible long ago.

She would slowly but clearly read every word and sentence to me: "When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines. These are the beginning of birth pains" (Mark 13:7).

Hearing her reading, I felt the Bible was no longer abstract or remote. It became real and instructive, related with our daily lives. Even the Book of Revelation, which had long been most mysterious and hard to understand to me, became crystal clear and vivid through her reading and interpretation.

I was amazed at her extensive Biblical knowledge. I was even more amazed at her prophetic wisdom. Shortly after Deng Xiao-ping reappeared on the political scene as the leader of the country, she insightfully asked me to pray for him. I hesitated, wondering why persons as ordinary as her and me would pray for someone high up in the governing position? Does it work? But she firmly insisted: "Pray for him. Ask God to soften his heart so that all Chinese people may have the freedom to accept Jesus as their Savior!"

I believed the prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective. So I asked her to pray for the increase of my faith. Surprisingly, she was not that "kind" this time. She told me, "You should pray yourself; God will hear your prayers." I was somewhat disappointed at the time, but later I understood her good will in urging me to pray. We subsequently knelt down and prayed together on her high straw bed made out of sorghum stalks. In the dimly lit room, her prayers were so sincere and spontaneous. Her words of thanksgiving flowed like a stream. She not only gave thanks for the salvation from God, for the peace and joy she enjoyed, she thanked God for giving her poverty and lowliness. Her love for people was abiding endlessly like the spinning silkworm or the light from a candle. People looked down on her, they despised her, treated her as more worthless than the grass; yet she prayed earnestly for "all people in China," for those in positions of power, for the salvation of all Chinese people, for every Chinese to enjoy eternal joy and peace. Who is to say that God had not heard her prayers? There was obvious religious freedom after the Cultural Revolution, House Churches sprang up like mushrooms after the 80s. Were they not answers from God to her prayers?

Friedrich Heiler describes six types of prayers in human experience: primitive, ritual, Hellenic, philosophical, mystical and prophetic. Among these, the prophetic is the highest form. The object of prophetic prayer is not only to meet one's own need, but to be concerned for the brethren, focusing on the inward expression of the soul. Prophetic prayer offers no method, no artificially refined mystic meditation. It is a spontaneous manifestation of a compelling emotion, a simple outpouring of the heart (Heiler 1958).
 

On April 9, 1945, the prison doctor at the German Concentration camp witnessed Bonhoeffer's martyrdom. He wrote many years later:

"On the morning of the day, ... through the half-open door I saw Pastor Bonhoeffer still in his prison clothes, kneeling in fervent prayer to the Lord his God. Hearing his evident devotion and conviction, the prayer of this intensely captivating man moved me to the depths.

"The prisoners were ordered to strip. Naked under the scaffold, Bonhoeffer knelt for one last time to pray. Five minutes later, he was dead."

The doctor recalled him to be a man "devout ... brave and composed. His death ensued after a few seconds ... I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God" (Bosanquet 1973).

Dietrich Bonhoeffer （4 February 1906 – 9 April 1945)

"Let's start praying," the pastor said to the seven or eight people sitting in the otherwise empty church; "We have the following prayer requests: Mark's family is going on vacation next week, he asked us to pray for their safe journey. Our church will have a BBQ gathering in Central Park on September 28, let us all pray, and ask God to give us a good weather day, no rain... ..."

Time flies. In the summer of 1984, I went back to Father's town like a refugee. I had my own family then. I was married, but did not have a house to live in. I "foolishly" married a foolish man who was a "politically problematic" person. That was why we had no house to live in after marriage. We could not start up a family. When I was about to give birth to a baby, I just had to come back to my maiden home and squeeze in with Mom and Dad and my younger sister.

It was in the middle of summer, this time Grandma came to see me. She had knitted some flowery lace to give me, she said it could be used for the baby's clothes. She looked even older. She wore a big white old-fashioned Chinese overcoat, her back bent even more than before, her gray hair had now turned pure white. But her face was still full of kindness and smiles as before. Joy emanated from her kindly eyes and gentle brows.

"What's the good news, Grandma, how come you're so happy?" I inquired.

She joyfully replied, "Oh, yes, I was just about to tell you. During the recent bad rainstorm, my house collapsed in the middle of the night when I was sleeping. The wind was wild, and the rain was severe. A beam fell down along the wall, landing squarely upon me. Neighbors got up and pulled me out of the mud, I was unharmed. Not a hair of mine was hurt! Was it not the grace of God? Praise the Lord!"

I thought about her dilapidated little house that was so shaky. Sooner or later it was going to fall as everyone expected. When the house fell, it did not hurt her. That was really God's grace! Then I asked with concern, "Where do you live now?"

"Oh, I live in the church." she was full of joy, as if it was a blessing for her to move into the church.

"Where can there be a dwelling place inside the church?" It puzzled me.

She remained joyful as she answered, "Underneath the staircase, it is such a good dwelling place!" I felt happy that she finally had a safe place to stay. For housing was really hard then. Was I worrying about where my dwelling place might be with my first-born son?

Not until the following winter did I find what a "good dwelling place" she had. Right after winter break began, I hurriedly ran away from my cramped 12-square-foot dorm-room assigned by the school. Carrying my baby on my backpack, I returned to my parents' home for the Lunar New Year's festival. One day at noon, after my baby was asleep, I thought that I should go to the church to see Grandma.

It was a sunny wintry day. Grandma was sitting in the churchyard, taking in some sun while she ate her lunch. On her right was a little wood-burning stove made from a little clay-pot pasted together with some clay. In her hand was a bowl of corn porridge. She was happy to see me. I asked her repeatedly, "Have you eaten, Grandma? Are you cold?"

She knew I was no chatty type, that I truly cared about her being warm and having enough to eat. She lovingly told me that she was comfortable and was not cold. She wore a dark colored cotton-padded overcoat and cotton-padded pants. She said that the cotton inlay was still pretty new. Her white silvery hair blew in the light wind; her joyful heart and gentle smile blended well with the bright sunshine.

But when I said, "Let's go see your dwelling place, Grandma," she became nervous. "Little girl, don't bother, don't bother seeing it." She tried hard to block me from going into the church. I would have none of her dissuasion, I turned and walked into the church.

Actually I had been very familiar with this huge church building since as a child I had lived in a house close to the church. In my memory, the building was gigantic and splendid. Stained glass filled the 16 colossal arched windows surrounding the church. A Canadian missionary had built it before 1949, but in the 50s it was closed and remodeled as hospital offices and storage. However, it survived the Cultural Revolution and re-opened as a church now. Several decades passed, all the colorfulness of the church building had faded. The stained glass had broken to pieces. The brick walls had deteriorated in the entire building, The doors and windows were loose and damaged.

As I pushed the door to go in, I felt a chill. Gone were the red painted floors of olden days. Rows of long benches now lined the damp and cold ground of dirt. Wind came in from all directions into this cold open space which could hold 1800 people (squeezed together) for Sunday worship. On the northwest corner, under the staircase was a trapezoid shaped space of about six square feet. There was about a half foot thick of straws and mat upon the cold damp dirt floor. Under the mat a brick was used as a pillow. Upon the mat were bedcovers and two layers of cotton blankets. This was Grandma's bedroom. The entire church had absolutely no heat. All the huge windows were broken. When the wind blew, snow came in too.

I was filled with sadness. Walking back to the yard under the sunshine, I said to her, "Grandma, you're actually camping out in the open air. How can you live here in such cold weather?"

Grandma raised her head. She still had no complaints. She was actually uncomfortable to see my sadness, as if it was her fault that I worried for her. She turned around to comfort me repeatedly: "Little girl, I'm not cold. Don't you see I have two layers of blankets? Don't worry, I'm not cold. Your dad and many others take care of me!"

Her silvery hair was flying about in the breeze. Her holy face was shining under the bright sunshine. What radiated from that face was her gentleness, goodness, peace, joy, thankfulness, humility and perseverance.

I never thought that that meeting under the sunshine would be the last time I would ever see her in this world.

Several years later, as I prepared to come to America, I made a quick trip back to my hometown to say good-bye to everyone. When I asked about Grandma, Father told me, she had peaceably left the world. She just remained asleep under the staircase of the church.

Although I know that she had eternal life, there is still in my heart an unspoken, inexpressible sorrow and melancholy ...

There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day. At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man's table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.

The time came when the beggar died and the angels carried him to Abraham's side. The rich man also died and was buried. In hell, where he was in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham far away, with Lazarus by his side. So he called to him, "Father Abraham, have pity on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire." 

But Abraham replied, "Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, while Lazarus received bad things, but now he is comforted here and you are in agony. And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who want to go from here to you cannot, nor can anyone cross over from there to us." (Luke 16: 19-26)

In the summer of 1991, the first Sunday after my arrival in the United States I joined the worship in a Chinese church in a suburb. This was the very first time I had stepped into a church in North America. Soft and cushioning was the carpet, soft and bright were the lights overhead; 700 F was the constant temperature all year round. The place was luxurious, splendid, and gigantic. There was space everywhere, in use or unused. Her image suddenly came into my mind. If only Grandma had such a space for her dwelling! That hallway at the entrance could actually hold 10 Grandma's to live there.

The Sunday School had started. A brother was sharing what he had learned from the retreat at Yellowstone Park. He said that he had attended many workshops; learned a lot, from finance management to marital relationships. He talked about things I could not understand, such as "stock" and "mutual funds" and things I could not tell whether I understood or not, such as "husband and wife should keep dating," etc. His presentation was lively and humorous, drawing a lot of laughter. But I could by no means laugh. I stood up, rushed to the restroom; my tears flowed out like a river...

After worship, my son and I walked out of the church hand in hand. My 7-year-old son seemed to think about something. Suddenly he asked, "Mom, where is he?"

I did not understand, "What? Who are you talking about?"

My son was serious, "I am talking about God. Is God in that crowded church of Grandpa's in China? Or is He here in this church?" He hesitated for a while, adding, "Does He love the people at Grandpa's church more or does he love these people more?"

I could not give him an answer.

The pastor asked me to "give a testimony and share the situation in China" during the Missions week. The first thing that moved my heart was to talk about "Grandma." But I discovered I could not communicate with the audience. Was it because I could not use the right words to tell her great testimonies in a life of suffering, or because there was a cultural gap between the audience and me? Only a few people among the 30 attending could understand the story of "Grandma Lazarus." In the audience one sister, an open, cheerful, happy-go-lucky type, laughed at every word I said. When I said Grandma became an orphan at age four, she burst out laughing. When I mentioned that her husband starved to death and she became a widow, she laughed again. When I described that Grandma had only five dollars a month to live on, she burst out laughing again. I described how Grandma lived under the staircase of the church; she laughed at that too.

In fact, I like this sister; I love her personality. We were supposed to be hometown kinfolk. Although she was born in Taiwan, her father came from our area. I asked if she had ever been to the old hometown. She said that she had never been to China, that two years ago, "Dad went back and found his eldest daughter. She was really poor!" She seemed very innocent; her personality was good. I knew that her laughing was not out of maliciousness; it was only because she did not understand and could not imagine what suffering was. It was this kind of "not-understanding" which caused my heart ache.

John Stott points out in his essay "God On the Gallows": there is good Biblical evidence that God not only suffered through Christ, but that God in Christ still suffers with His people. In ministering to the stranger Jesus explains that we minister to Him, identifying himself with all needy and suffering people. In the real world of pain, how can one worship a God who is immune to suffering?

I finally completed my scientific research on "Faith and Suffering." I went through works of theologians, philosophers and psychologists, accumulating 86 pages of summaries from them. I discovered that Christians and non-Christians alike all acknowledge and advocate the positive influence of faith in suffering. But in the realm of theory, everybody has his or her own opinions. I was not satisfied after a rough synthesis of 12 categories of answers to suffering, so I quoted what McKenzie had said: "To the perennial problem of suffering the believer has no convincing and complete rational solution. The discussion of the problem of suffering has not advanced significantly in the last two and half thousand years. All the main arguments listed in the modern books on philosophical theology are to be found in one shape or another in the literature of antiquity" (Mckenzie 1971, 246). Then I concluded: Suffering is an experiential, not theoretical question. It can only be explained theoretically and rationally on the basis of one's faith. Facing the problem of suffering and faith, what we need is none other than faith.

Anyone who has been saved by the suffering and the blood of Jesus Christ should be able to understand suffering.

I never shared Grandma's story again. But I think about her often. Every time I walk into a large building such as a church, a conference room, or a library, every time I see somebody living in a big house with five bedrooms and three other rooms, the vast, comfortable, sofa lined halls bring to my memory of Grandma's little bed of straw with a tattered mat under the staircase. I frequently meditate on the meaning of her life; her holy face under the sunshine keeps popping up in my head. In her whole life, she had kept her faith, she remained kind and gentle, humble and patient. With no complaints and no regrets, she was content in poverty and happy in what life dished out to her. Were it not for her total dependence upon God, her complete trust in the Lord, how could she have been so fearless in terror, so joyful in poverty? How could she have uttered nothing but praise buried with stormy rain and mud, living in perfect peace under long nights of chills and cold? I felt it was my privilege to know her. I praise God for His great love for me, giving me such a blessing to know her as a model of faith.

At the same time, I am constantly deeply convicted in my heart. I had not gone back to see her after that time I visited her in the churchyard under the sun. Perhaps my reasons were many. My baby was small; I needed to take care of him. I seldom went back to Father's town; therefore I had no opportunity to serve her. But I know all these reasons were no reasons. The true reason was that I loved myself-my own child-more than I loved my "neighbor." I really regret that. Even though everyone had a hard life, even though I couldn't possibly find a little house for her, at least I could go to see her often, I could have brought a bowl of warm water to wash her frozen feet, to help her sleep with a more comfort.

In moments like this, I seem to hear a silent voice from above: "You still have a chance. You still have thousands upon thousands of Grandma Lazarus's in your homeland. They are hungry and thirsty, they are sojourning, they need clothes, they are sick or in prison ... Go, serve them, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me!"

When I heard this voice, I lay prostrate and covered my face, trembling. I answered: "Lord, O Lord! I heard your calling! I will go, I am here, I am willing!"


Bibliography
Walter A. Elwell, editor. The Evangelical Dictionary of Theology, Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1992 [c1984].
Alister McGrath. A Celebration Of Reformation Spirituality, London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1991, pp. 76-77.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The Cost Of Discipleship; [R. H. Fuller, (Trans.) with some revision by Irmgard Booth], London: SCM Press, 1964, c1959.
Bosanquet, Mary. The Life and Death of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, New York: Harper & Row, 1973.
Heiler, Friedrich. Prayer: A Study In The History And Psychology Of Religion. Translated and edited by Samuel McComb (Trans. & Ed.) with the assistance of J. Edgar Park. New York, Oxford University Press, 1958 [c1932].

Esther Wang serves as an editor in CCLiFe. This article is from Christian Life Quarterly, June, 1997, Vol.1 No. 2, pp. 28-33.

Special thanks to Dr. Alister McGrath for his help in the process of translating his quotes back into English. 

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