As we went out of the old city of Homs, the clearness of the atmosphere was like transparency made visible. The horizon was as clean-cut as that of the ocean. Off to the west were the heights inhabited by the cruel and fanatical Nusairiyeh; straight in front of us to the south was the “Entering In of Hamath,” lying low and narrow between Anti-Lebanon on our left and the snow-clad summits of highest Lebanon on our right; while to the east the great wheat-fields of the “Land of Homs” rolled away over the horizon to the unseen desert. Our goal, the little village of Feruzi, shone so white and distinct that it was hard to realize that it was over an hour’s journey away.
We were four: two Americans, the native pastor of the Protestant congregation at Homs, and an old, old man. The pastor was a noble fellow, who shortly afterward showed heroic mettle during a fearful cholera epidemic which ravaged his city. The old man, however, was the more picturesque figure.
He was clothed in baggy trousers of faded blue, with a large turban on his head and a heavy, formless sheepskin mantle over his shoulders; his bare feet were thrust into great yellow slippers which flopped clumsily as he walked. We should once have been inclined to treat him with some condescension; but fortunately we had learned the Oriental lesson of reverence for old age, and we American college graduates soon found there were many things that this unschooled Syrian mechanic could teach us. What dignity and quietness marked his speech and manner! How calm and trustful was his attitude toward the future! He was one of the first Protestants in this district, and many were the stories he could tell of the early days of struggle and persecution. He had never been rich—I doubt if he earned thirty cents a day; yet he spoke as one who had observed much and reflected much and, although many kinds of trouble had come to him, his contentment and faith were an inspiration to us. As we were his guests, we were of course treated with the greatest friendliness, yet we could see that in his eyes we were mere boys, who knew little of the problems of life. And, to tell the truth, before the day was over we were more than half inclined to agree with him.
Feruzi is one of the few remaining villages in the country which are not Syrian, but the older Chaldean in blood and language. Its inhabitants, who number about a thousand, appear quite different in feature as well as dress from the people of the surrounding district. Their costume is a peculiar one, remarkable for its warm colors and long, queerly cut trimmings. The women remind one of American Indians, and the faces of the men are of unusual fierceness. It seemed quite natural that there should be a Chaldean church here, big and gaudy, yet ugly and ill-kept, with a much-prized copy of the Scriptures in the Syriac tongue chained to the lectern; but we saw no structure resembling a Protestant place of worship, and among the crowds that followed us curiously about it was impossible to find any one who looked like a Presbyterian elder.
Yet when we turned into the room set apart for the use of the Protestant congregation, some of the wildest and most dangerous-looking men followed. It was a small place, not over twenty feet square, low and dark, and quite bare save for a rough matting on the floor and a chair and a table for the preacher. In a few minutes it was crowded to suffocation. There were over ninety people in the little room. The men sat on one side and the women on the other; but all of us sat on the floor and were so packed together that any change of position was quite impossible, except for a few mothers with babies, who sat near the door.
Throughout the long Christmas sermon the cramped audience showed a reverence and an attentiveness that would have shamed many an American congregation. Suppose that a full-blooded Arab in his flowing native dress, should enter one of our churches at home—what a craning of necks there would be, and how few persons would be able to recall the text! We appeared just as outlandish to the people of Feruzi; yet, although we sat at the back of the room, not a person turned to look at us, except that the man at my side would always help me find the place in the hymn book. It was not indifference, but consideration for the stranger and respect for the occasion; and we who had come merely to see an unusual sight, stayed to worship God with these new friends, and went away with a fuller realization of the meaning of Christmas.
After the service was over, however, there could be no charge of indifference brought against these Chaldean villagers—and here too American congregations might well learn from them. The same men who just now had seemed to ignore our existence came crowding around to greet us as “brethren.” They inquired about our life at Beirut and our own wonderful country far beyond the western ocean; they expressed a complimentary surprise at the extent of our travels; they sympathized tenderly with the homesickness which comes so strongly at Christmas-time and expressed kindly wishes for our dear ones in America; they pressed upon us the poor hospitality that it was in their power to offer. In short, out of church as in church, the people of Feruzi acted like the devout, courteous and friendly Christians that they were.
When at last we had to leave, they all followed us out to the village limits, and one or two—such is the pleasant Oriental custom—walked on with us for a mile on our homeward journey. When the last strange, dark Chaldean had said “God be with you, brother!” we went on in the beautiful calm of evening a little more quietly than we had come, with a clearer understanding of the brotherhood of man, and a deeper faith in the teachings of man’s great Brother.