Wayfaring Reflections

Had a good holiday?” asked my neighbors when I returned last weekend after a two-month working stint abroad. The same bright question had greeted me not long ago after a longer sojourn in Asia. Nothing will convince them that traveling 33,000 miles over fourteen countries, sleeping in planes and in twenty-five different beds, losing ten pounds in weight, being jostled at countless airports and hotels, is anything but a joyful junket.

They tell me and each other how lucky I am to have had all that Oriental sun, and please would I not forget the church jumble sale tomorrow. Seldom do they ask questions about the places I visit or the purpose of my work: perhaps they have experienced too many tedious sessions of holiday slides. I leave them to the only world most of them have known. I feel dismayed and a little superior at their insularity, yet envy them their innocence. I know that when Christian Aid or the Seventh-day Adventists collect for relief work and medical missions, the generous hearts of my neighbors will shame me.

Should I try to tell them of the leprosy clinic and resettlement villages that so impressed me in Korea? Of my embarrassment in Indonesia when the poor workers building their own church, with whom I had prayed in their little hut, insisted on driving me back in their ancient van to my expensive hotel? Of those eager, likeable theological students in Burma who hailed my Saturday afternoon arrival as “providential” because “the elders” who usually monopolized Western visitors were for once out of town? Of another country that now has no Christian church building, but in which the Christian presence is making effective impact through medical work? Of another sensitive area in which the Body of Christ has suffered because of lightning visits by brethren with more zeal than wisdom, who have distributed Christian literature without consulting local believers who knew that approach to be imprudent?

The wandering journalist soon finds himself confronted by a cruel dilemma. Some Asian countries lend themselves to spectacular stories, but they cannot be told simply because Christians have to go on living there. Let me illustrate this with a cautionary tale.

A British girl felt called to serve in one such Asian land. She gave her testimony at the valedictory meeting in her own rural church. The story was picked up by a local newspaper. This, in turn, caught the attention of the efficient press clipping agency used by the country in question. Word reached the Asian capital via the London embassy. That girl’s visa was canceled, and the whole thing was made to reflect on Christians in that country. It reminded me of my old church history professor who, on the first day of lectures, said, “Gentlemen, learn reticence.” Communist countries particularly have an ongoing testimony that could be jeopardized by visiting believers who have not “done their homework.”

During that Asian tour I received much kindness. Many people went to enormous trouble on my behalf, especially when I spurned the “establishment tour” and turned up unexpectedly in some remoter area. A little enterprise on our part means so much to witnesses in lonely places. And the usual prudent precautions about food and water are somehow divinely waived when refreshment is brought in love. (A clumsy sentence but wanderers will understand.)

I mentioned reticence, but let me be un-reticent about some bewildering experiences in three countries.

1. In one I called on the general secretary of the national council of churches. Having made an appointment the previous day, I arrived hot, dusty, and thirsty after trying to find his office in the noonday sun. He sent someone out to ask what I wanted, but eventually I was admitted to a frigid welcome, no glass of cold water (which the national hospitality prescribed), and a two-cigarette-long interview of monological tendencies. Then I found what was bugging him: He’d been saving up Western journalistic misdemeanors for the next of that breed to drop by—and there I was answerable for all the gaffes of my fellows. My restraint was all of grace, and we parted with some degree of cordiality. I did miss that glass of water, though.

2. In a second country I called a missionary society and asked if I could see one of its workers two days later. The spokesman was abrupt. Mr. X was out of town. I persisted. Was there someone else who saw visitors? I mentioned Mr. Y, whom I knew. Was he there? He was, but the spokesman could not presume to make an appointment for a busy man. Finally I got a date with a third officer. The busyness I appreciated, and the problem posed by unexpected callers. What depressed me was the unfriendly attitude I had encountered. I wanted to say, “Dear missionary friend, if ever you are 9,000 miles from home and hear my voice at the end of a telephone line, 1 promise I won’t make you feel a nuisance, even though you are obviously no angel unawares.” I didn’t. More grace. Let me add that I was subsequently given a warm welcome at the office of the missionary society, and an apology that there had been some misunderstanding about my identity. For some vague reason that explanation made me feel a little uncomfortable.

3. In India I had a very different reception from that given in either of the two Christian sources cited above. This was in New Delhi, at the hands of a Hindu who had never heard of Hebrews 13:2. We got into casual conversation. He turned out to be an air force captain, due to be married shortly. I inquired about his girl. He told me her name, and added ruefully, “But I never get to see her. Sometimes I telephone and we talk for a little, but if her mother answers I just say hello-how-are you and hang up.” Hindu arranged marriages not infrequently throw up situations like that.

My Hindu friend took me sightseeing. Perched on the back of his scooter I had my first introduction to the Indian capital—and my first outing in ten weeks. He spoke of his country’s history, tactfully omitting any direct reference to British imperialism, and of his hopes for its future. He took me for a meal, and next day insisted on making the trip to the airport to see me off. He asked what a Protestant was, and why the Reformation. He was interested in the kind of things I wrote about. “Will you do me a great favor?” he said as finally we shook hands, “will you send me some of your articles?”

Waving to that stocky uniformed figure as I walked out to the plane, two questions haunted me. What had I ever written that would speak to the condition of a sophisticated young Hindu? And if he were converted, would he become as insufferable as some Christians I know?

Of course it’s unfair to compare the good in one with the bad in another. Of course I ought to ponder how much worse one would be if he were not a Christian, how much better a Hindu would be if he were. But there lingers an uneasy (and dubiously sound) feeling that perhaps discussion with those of other faiths should not be as onesided as I had thought.

J. D. Douglas is an author and journalist living in St. Andrews, Scotland.

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