On the evening of that same day, Padre Ghopal and the English padre, Logan by name, walked together to look upon the ruins of the native church that had been destroyed by the flood. Ghopal, with tears in his eyes, as he stood by the ruins, besought the Padre Sahib to help him in this great trouble, as he had often helped him before.
“I am sorry, very sorry, for the destruction of your church,” said Logan Sahib kindly but gravely; “but I really cannot so soon again ask for subscriptions from England, and my own purse is now empty. There was a collection made for you but last year in my former parish, near London, and some of the very poorest of the school children gave to it their pence and their halfpence, instead of spending the money on sweetmeats. I heard of a blind woman who, day by day, can scarcely earn her scanty living by knitting, who yet found that she could spare something to help the Lord’s work in a distant land. If she cared for the building of a church into which she never will enter, and for the conversion to God of people whom she never will see, are the members of your flock content to remain idle? Do they think it well to sit with folded hands like children, and expect to be fed by others? It is time that native Christians should learn the proverb, ‘God helps those that help themselves.’”
Padre Ghopal shook his head and sighed deeply. “I have spoken to the people on this subject again and again,” he replied, “but they listen as those who hear not. They are as trees that bear leaves of profession, but the fruit of good works is not seen on the boughs. Besides, my people are poor,” added the native pastor.
“Was it not said of the Philippians, how their deep poverty abounded unto the riches of their liberality, for that to their power, yea, and beyond their power, they were willing of themselves?” (2 Cor. viii. 2) said Padre Logan. “Not till we see more of this spirit of liberality and self-sacrifice in the Indian Church, will God’s full blessing rest upon it.”
“I know it, I know it,” sighed Padre Ghopal.
“And not all your people are poor,” continued the English pastor. “You have amongst them baboos in government employ, who receive good salaries every month. Can you not persuade them to give at least one-tenth of their means to the Giver of all, even as every Jew did in the days of old? Shall Christians do less for their religion than did the Jews?”
“The baboos want good houses, and their wives want fine jewels,” said Padre Ghopal. “If we wait to rebuild this church till the people bring free-will offerings, like Jews at Jerusalem or Christians at Philippi, we shall wait till yon river runs dry.”
Even as Padre Ghopal spoke, a poor ryot drew nigh, and respectfully made his salám. “May I speak with the padre?” said he.
“He has, of course, some favour to ask,” observed Padre Logan. “These people are always crying, ‘Give—give!’”
Isa Das, for it was he, heard the words of the Englishman, and they were bitter to the soul of the ryot; but without looking towards him the poor man turned to his own pastor and silently held out his hand, in which there was one bright silver rupee.