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TOPIC: Gordon, Samuel Dickey - Quiet Talks on Following the Christ (Other Topics in this Collection)
SUBJECT: 48. Grafted
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Grafted
Have you noticed the significance of that word "abide" which our Lord used on the night of His betrayal? (Joh_15:1-27.) "Abide" means a grafting process; we were branches in the vine, but we were broken off by sin. The only way to abide in that vine is by being grafted in. "Abide" means grafted. But the grafting process has two wounds. It means a knife used twice. It means a wound in the vine-stock, and our Master flinched not there. It means likewise a wound in the branch to be grafted in. Just as surely as the knife must make the incision into the stock, it must also cut the end of the branch before it can be grafted in. Our Master flinched not. How about you and me when it comes to the knife, with its sharp cutting edge, and slash and sting?
Perhaps this explains why there's so little life, so little sap-flow, so little fruit. If you follow along the narrow road your progress is sure to be barred by a knife thrust out across the path. And the whole instinct of our nature is to shrink from the knife. The sacrificial knife becomes the pruning, the grafting knife. There can be no life without that knife. Failure to obey cuts off the supply of life.
I became greatly interested in a young man whom I met in Japan. He comes of a noble, wealthy family. He attended a mission school to study English, learned to read the Bible, became intensely interested, and then decided to become a Christian. But his family was violently opposed, and pleaded earnestly with him. He would in time be the head of his family, but if he insisted now on being a Christian he would be disowned. He was to be trained in the Imperial University, and could have chosen a public national career including the probability of membership in the Imperial diet, but he remained true to his decision. And he was disowned in disgrace, cast adrift without a cent. Now he is devoting himself to mission work in the city where I met him, working among the neediest and lowest. I was told that the police gladly say that his mission has greater power than they in preserving order in that worst quarter of the city.
The night I stood by his side, speaking through his interpretation, a Japanese policeman dragged up a couple of youths who had been giving trouble, and pushed them in, saying, "Here's the place for you; now listen to that." And I have never been in a simple service where the quiet intense power of God was more marked. This is what obedience meant to him. And this too is what abiding meant. He yielded to the grafting knife, and the life of the vine-stock came flowing freely through, bearing abundant fruit.
A few years ago I read a simple story in "The Sunday-school Times" that brought a lump in my throat. The writer told of a south-bound train stopping at a station near Washington City. At the last moment, an old negro with white hair came hurriedly forward and clambered on the last coach as the train pulled out. He was very black, and very dusty, and single occupants of seats looked apprehensive as he shuffled along looking for a seat. But he did not offer to intrude, but stood at the end of the car, looking with big wondering eyes down the car. He was evidently very tired. Then a young man offered him space in his seat, for which he seemed very grateful, and with child-like simplicity began talking.
He was going back home "to Georgy"; had been up in Virginia for years with the rare old slave loyalty serving his old master between times, while earning his own way. Now his master was dead and he was going back down to the old home state, "back to Georgy," and the words came softly, while his hand tenderly patted the seat cushion. Clearly Georgia was the acme of happiness and content for him. As the train boy came through, the young man bought some sandwiches for the old negro. He was very grateful. Yes, he was hungry, and had walked several miles to get the train. He couldn't spend money for "victuals"; "money's too skase fur buying things on the road," he said, "I was 'lowin' ter fill up arter I done reach Georgy."
Then the conductor came in for tickets. The black man anxiously fumbled through one pocket after another, and finally remembered that his ticket was pinned to the lining of his hat. "Done tuk ebery cent I could scrape up to get dat ticket," he said, "but dat's all right. I kin wuk, an' fo'ks don' need money when dey's home." The conductor had passed on to the next seat behind. There sat a shabbily dressed woman, with anxious, frightened-looking face, the seat full of bundles and a pale-faced baby in arms.
"Tickets, please."
The woman's face flushed red, and then grew white and set, as she said, "I haven't any."
"Have to get off then; save me the trouble of putting you off."
The woman sprang up with terror in her big eyes, "Don't put me off; my husband's dying; the doctor said he must go South; we've sold everything left to send him; now he's dying; I must go to him. But I have no money, don't put me off. My God—my God—if you—" Her plea poured out in excited, jerky sentences. But the conductor could do nothing. He must obey his instructions, or be discharged. The woman sank back sobbing, in the seat. The conductor turned back to get the old negro's ticket.
"I'se feared you'll have to put me off, boss," he said humbly, "don't expect a pore ole nigger like me to raise enuf fur a ticket." The conductor harshly ordered him off the train at the next station, saying there was some excuse for the poor woman, but none for him. The train began to slow up for the station. The old negro quietly dropped his ticket into the lap of the woman, saying, "Here's yo' ticket, missus. I do hopes yo' find dat husban' o' yourn ain' so bad as yo'se afeared." And before her dazed eyes could take in what he was doing, the old man had shuffled out of the car, and as the train pulled on he was seen quietly plodding along, still "bound for Georgy."
And there was no mention of Christ in the story, but one who knows the old typical slave class to which he belongs needs not to be told of the motive down in his heart. That's what obedience, unanalyzed, undeliberated about, meant to him. Have you ever worn the "Georgy" shoes? Have you ever tramped to "Georgy"? If some of us might find out the old man's cobbler and get some "Georgy" tramping shoes! The way of obedience is a way of sacrifice.