1.07.08. Book 7: 8. I want a Settledness

8. I WANT A SETTLEDNESS HIS chief work concerned the conduct of the various undertakings in the hands of the C.M.S. missionaries of South India, the super­vising of accounts-"spiritual arithmetic" his chief, Henry Venn, called it,-writing of business letters, and that oiling of possibly creaky wheels for which such an office affords oppor­tunity. He was keen to keep the human touch alive, and tried to add a personal word to each official letter; and he kept a prayer-roll of his fellow-missionaries’ names, and wrote to them on the day set apart for prayer for them. So the routine of business was saturated in the loving and spiritual, and the work never became merely mechanical. But he stabbed himself at times, and, as was the custom in those days, in secret with his pen.

" ’I was dumb and opened not my mouth.’ Teach me to restrain my tongue, when ready to break out. At a committee meeting, some­times I break through all rules of gentlemanly behaviour, interrupting. Often silent and dull; and when speaking, speaking folly." And again with the same sharp truth-telling, "How often I mention the faults of my fellow­-helpers, making it appear that I am so far superior to them. How slow am I to praise; and this, not from envy, but from a slowness to perceive excellence. In myself, how quick am I to perceive anything seemingly good, and to hug myself. Dear Noble and his house, how different from me!" In India to be long alone is rarely possible, the desire for privacy is not understood, and from the kindly little child who slips her hand into yours sure of her welcome, just when you were revelling in your good luck, "for I saw you all by your lonely," up through the count­less grades to whichever considers itself top, there seems to be a compassionate conspiracy to save you from the blessings of solitude. To shut one’s door is not easy-sometimes, as a matter of fact, there is no door to shut.

Ragland found that one way of getting alone in spirit, if not in body-and after all it is the spiritual seclusion that counts-was to sit writing by a table. So when he could not be longer on his knees without attracting observa­tion, he would sit and write on slips of paper the prayer that still lay in his heart.

I have hesitated to copy from these slips. They were private. But so were the cries from David’s heart when first they burned out into words. And these words of Ragland discover us to ourselves. By that sure sign we know them ours. These slips of paper are human documents: they belong to the human family. We are not eavesdropping, then, we are only listening with the angels who tarried about him and are never far from anyone of us. And he would not mind. For just as the book born in the deeps of the soul, shyest of all shy things, becomes as it were impersonal when another hand touches it, so it is with these records which, as he was translated straight from the day’s work to Paradise, he had no time to destroy. Rather he would wonder and be glad if any single little word could do anything for us. So we draw near, unashamed.

"0 Lord, do I not often render myself worthy of the folly of those that answer a matter before they hear it? Am I not sadly eager to speak? This is very unbecoming, however good that may be which I have to say. Does it not arise from self-conceit, and also from an affectation of appearing more penetrating than others? Why should I care to speak? I want to have the credit of making the suitable observation. It is not enough for me that the best means be adopted, but I, if possible, must suggest them. Lord, forgive this vanity, this unbecomingness. It is still worse in me than in others, because I have so few good thoughts, so little to say.

Let me never interrupt: also, let me always hear all, before I attempt to form a judgment or give a reply. Wisdom, wisdom, Lord, for Thy glory only, only! Give me power to command my­self. ’He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.’ ’A fool hath no delight in understanding but that he may discover himself.’ Make me abhor display, as hateful to Thee. It is a sign of a little mind to be anxious to deliver oneself of a new thought. I have Thy glory to seek and not my own. If I were considered the wisest and the most apt of men, would it be anything compared with glorifying Thee truly, by the humble use of the meanest talent?"

Scathing, is it not? Introspective? Perhaps so; but "Let a man examine himself" is not an obsolete command. His quick temper: "How I sin in clamour!" he writes as regards that temptation of the East to shout when dealing with tiresome servants. "Cannot I make them understand when I talk in a low tone, and without impatient gestures?" The tendency to fret over trifles: "Let it be seen that I have not my heart so set on the little things about me as to be ruffled by slight derangements. Oh do not allow me to go on lamenting, but slothful and unimproving. Give me meekness out of Christ’s meekness." And just about the same time another man with razor-edged words at his command was writing: "Mr. Ward kept his temper-to compress, bottle up, cork down, and prevent your anger from present furious explosion is to keep your temper." We breathe another air when we walk with Ragland.

Life even in those days, which appear from our distance so placid, could be complicated and perplexing enough, and once Ragland consoled a worried brother by reminding him that our Master "does not give us two things to be done at the same moment; and He only expects what He gives time, talents, and strength for. This thought was most comfort­ing to me, and was the means of keeping me quiet when I had much to think about, and wonderfully helped me in getting through work." The man to whom he was writing owned that work was invading his quiet morn­ing hour. "But this ought not to be; and let us say, through the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, shall not be. My brother knows as well or better than I do, what a poor meagre ministry must be the consequence of a minister’s neglecting to keep his own vineyard." Did he never know depression apart from that greater emotion, repentance? Saints, martyrs, warriors, was there one who never knew it? There are days in India when one cannot see the hills; not because of mighty clouds and mists-these carry rain, and the very word has a good sound to Indian ears-but because of a faint, thin grey heat-haze that blots out as effectually as any cloud the brave joys of peak and crag and the sweetness of the valleys between. In all souls’ weather there are days of heat-haze, when that cheerless sin accidie makes to lay hands upon us. But what can feelings do to facts except for the mo­ment obscure them? The only thing on such days is to look up, and go on, and try not to make it harder for others: "Many, as Thou knowest, are our temptations. Oh let me not increase those of my poor brethren by selfish­ness, arbitrariness, want of kindness and sympathy." For in all Ragland’s habits of thinking he never poses; one never comes across mere covering phraseology; he deals with real things. It is evident that light upon the keeping power of our Lord Jesus Christ came in fuller and fuller measure as he went on, and the thrice blessed words "Able to keep you from falling" became illuminated in his experience; his friends write of a brighter, gladder, more triumphant faith being born in him. But his sensitiveness to­wards God-I know not by what other name to call it-never grew less tender, nor his grief for any lapse less fine in edge: "It won’t be always as it has been," he wrote on a day, not of heat-haze but rather of mingled sun and shower. "The God of peace shall bruise Satan under my feet shortly. I want a settledness, a settled holy fear of sin and, if it might be, con­tinual upholding of my going in the Lord’s ways, that my feet slip not, never, never."