Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “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 o
f 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.

  34

  In the House of Chang Hsu-yu

  When they reached the perimeter of the village, they turned northward along the bank of the smaller of the two streams, which Hsi-chen called Chai-chiang, or simply Narrow River. The other was K’uan-chiang, Broad River. The two rivers provided the chief thoroughfares within the village, and at this time of day several small junks were traveling upon the muddy water.

  In about ten minutes at their hurried pace, the three came to a second bridge similar to the one located near the mission. It was congested with mid-morning bustle, largely as a result of the shopping and market activity that congregated about both ends of it.

  As they stepped upon the bridge to cross, several of the passing villagers seemed to Robbie to give Chang, who was several paces ahead, noticeable looks of derision. These same abusive stares were directed at Hsi-chen when she and Robbie passed.

  “T’i-mien!” said several, in tones clearly derogatory.

  Robbie turned to Hsi-chen to ask what it meant. He had somehow imagined that this girl would have been held in high regard among the villagers. But as he opened his mouth to speak he could see on her face such a taut, solemn expression that he thought better of it. He sensed that to intrude at that moment would likely cause her measured grace to crumble.

  He had been to the village but once previously, but had not before noticed such open hostility. What could be the cause? And Hsi-chen’s reaction was particularly puzzling, for he had not seen such a tension on her face since the first day they had met.

  Stepping off the bridge, they again turned north. Passing three houses, which in fact were more like hovels or shacks, they came to the home of Chang Hsu-yu.

  The poverty about the place was evident, though perhaps no more so than in many of the surrounding huts, and was made to look even more dismal by the dank, hard-packed earth that fronted the house, without foliage of any kind, and comprised the entire floor of the inside of it. As they came nearer they saw that several baskets and tools were strewn haphazardly about, laundry hung on a line to the side, and an even poorer shack stood behind the house which Robbie later learned contained the family’s meager silk farm. There was no glass in the windows, only shutters, which now hung wide open to let what breeze there was into the house. Two of these hung askew, partially broken or wrenched off their hinges. The front door also stood open, and a young boy in the doorway, standing silently with a finger in his mouth, gazed with childish puzzlement at the urgently approaching trio.

  Chang rushed past the child into the house, followed by Hsi-chen, and then by Robbie. He gaped at what he saw. The inside had been made a shambles by something clearly other than mere poverty. The scene reminded him of the morning after a brawl in a dockside pub. Two homemade chairs lay in pieces beside a coarse table. Cooking utensils were scattered all about the floor; rice and flour had been strewn about, and Robbie felt the grains crushing beneath his shoes. A chest had been turned on its side, and its contents spilled out from the open lid onto the ground. Robbie stepped forward to help the young girl who was struggling to right the heavy wooden box. She started, then shyly stepped back while he turned it back to an upright position, then she took up a broom and quietly began attempting to clean the mess on the floor.

  In the meantime Hsi-chen had hastened to a large brick bed, perhaps the most prominent feature in the one-room house. Here, in the k’ang, the entire family slept at night, often ate, and might spend many cold winter days, warmed by the stove nestled under the bed structure. There was but one figure on the bed now, slight and feeble in appearance, nearly swallowed up in the huge expanse on which she lay. Chang knelt at her side, grasping a thin, gnarled hand in his, while his silent lips showed obvious anxiety. Hsi-chen sat down on the edge of the bed and began wiping a cloth across the woman’s damp brow. She spoke softly to the woman in Chinese. Chang’s wife replied weakly but with a faint smile. Hsi-chen proceeded to dress the two or three cuts and abrasions on the woman’s face, then laid her hand on the clasped hands of husband and wife, bowed her head, and murmured a few words.

  Robbie shuffled awkwardly, realizing they were praying together, feeling rather like an intruder, as if he had unknowingly stumbled into a holy place. He understood not a word of what Hsi-chen spoke, but could sense its deep reverence; there was a fervor of conviction in the words no matter how softly spoken.

  After only a minute or two, she rose to her feet, gave the patient a parting affectionate pat on the shoulder, though the poor woman seemed to have dozed off by this time, then drew Chang aside and spoke in low tones with him for a moment before turning her attention once again to Robbie.

  “Do you wonder what happened here?” she asked.

  “Perhaps it is none of my business,” Robbie replied.

  “Only if you wish it not to be. But you are already, in the eyes of the villagers, associated with the mission, and it may be that you ought to know.”

  “Have they been burglarized?” he asked. “It’s hard to believe they could have anything worth stealing.”

  “That is true,” she said. “And they have not been robbed. This was an act of vandalism, done by the villagers, their own neighbors.”

  “But why?”

  “It is soon time for the transplanting of the young rice plants from the nurseries to the fields. And there is a local observance that has been traditional for years which is thought to bless this process. The villagers are expected to pay a tithe to the temple during this festival. But Chang Hsu-yu and his family are Christians and have refused to do so.”

  She paused and swept a hand around the room. “This is what has become of their courageous stand. You see, however much the gospel has come to China, the cultural and religious barriers are still enormous.”

  “Their own neighbors would do this to them!”

  “The sense of belonging is deeply woven into the Chinese nature and culture. It is seen in strong family bonds, in the worship of ancestors, and it extends to the entire villag
e life. If one thread of this fine fabric breaks, it is not surprising that the others would fear for the stability of the whole piece of cloth. That fear drives these people—honest, hard-working people—to do whatever they perceive must be done to protect the old ways.”

  “What harm would it do for him just to pay the tithe?” asked Robbie. “It hardly seems worth . . . well, that,” he said, nodding toward the bed where the sick woman lay.

  “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s?” mused Hsi-chen thoughtfully.

  “Exactly!”

  “It is a difficult question,” she replied, not evasively, but forthrightly. “We must speak of it again. Until then, you might simply consider the second part of that verse. But now there is work to be done.”

  While they had been talking, the old man had gone outside the house and had begun attempting to set the shutters back in place. Because of his small stature, he was having difficulty with the top hinge. Therefore, while Hsi-chen helped the girl restore order inside, Robbie offered his assistance to Chang, who smiled gratefully.

  Chang handed an old hammer to Robbie, then shouldered the heavy shutter, pressing it against the wall with tough, work-worn hands, while Robbie reached up and hammered it back into place. When it was finished they moved to the next, and on around the house, working harmoniously together, mostly in silence, with occasionally Chang giving some kind of direction in Chinese, which he accompanied with sufficient gestures to make Robbie grasp his meaning. Robbie found an elemental form of exhilaration in the physical labor that seemed altogether oblivious to nationality or language. They worked for about three quarters of an hour on the shutters, and then moved to several other tasks about the place; Chang seemed extremely grateful for Robbie’s help.

  Normally Chang would have been out in the rice fields with his sons, but since his wife’s injury he had limited himself to the house. This was his only outward sign of concern for her. Displaying the seemingly typical Oriental stoicism, Chang did not appear excessively anxious about the morning’s turmoil, nor did he display any taste for retribution against his neighbors. Robbie found himself admiring the man’s control and pleasant disposition. What effect Chang’s time of prayer with Hsi-chen might have had in this he did not stop to inquire of himself.